The Queen's Poisoner (Kingfountain, #1)(83)

Amidst such confusion, no one took much notice of the small little boy sneaking around and exploring the castle from one end to the other. It was much smaller than Kingfountain, he soon realized, and the wind here was sharp and cool. The view from the bulwarks was impressive, but Tatton Hall was too far away to see.

Owen felt uneasy and wondered how Ankarette was going to find him. The royal retinue would not be arriving with the baggage carts from Kingfountain for several more days. As a result, there were mostly soldiers around the grounds. A woman would surely stand out among them, but Owen was confident that she would find a way.

While he was wandering the battlement walls, a squire bearing the badge of Duke Horwath found him and took him to the royal apartments where the king was meeting with the duke. There were knights and servants coming in and out of the sitting room, heralds waiting to bring messages. Owen looked at all the tall men and felt out of place as the only child among them. He missed Evie and wished she were here to explore the castle with him. He missed his tiles too, and the serenity they gave him. While the adults were talking, Owen found a Wizr set by the table near the king’s luggage and began playing with it and admiring the pieces.

Then he noticed the black book on top of a chest. It felt like his stomach was suddenly full of worms, all wriggling and twisting. The book seemed to call to him, whispering to him to open it. He glanced over at Duke Horwath and the king, but the king was doing most of the talking and his back was to Owen. The king’s hand tugged on his dagger hilt in his habitual nervous gesture. He looked tall and strong, and while one of his shoulders was slightly higher than the other, his posture and gestures seemed to hide the fact.

Owen glanced back at the book. He had a craving to start reading it. If he stole it, he knew it would be missed. But what if he could learn something about his family in it, something that could help them?

He knew what Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer would do. He reached into his pocket and rubbed his thumb on the braid she had cut off and given him. Then, steeling himself, he inched his way over to the bed, as if he were merely curious. His fingers shook a little as he reached out and touched the book’s binding.

He glanced back one more time, and when he saw everyone else was still thoroughly engrossed in conversation, he carefully opened the book and started reading.



The Occupation of the Throne of Ceredigion by King Severn (unfinished), written by Master John Tunmore.



King Eredur, of that name the Fourth, after he had lived fifty and three years, seven months, and six days, and thereof reigned two and twenty years, one month, and eight days, died at Kingfountain the ninth day of Averil, leaving much fair issue . . .



—He was poisoned—

Owen started when he heard the whisper in his mind. A tremulous feeling began to unfurl inside him. As soon as he had started to read the little black book, a gentle murmuring sound began to fill his ears, so subtle he had not noticed it swelling. Then the thought struck him with the force of a blow. King Eredur had been poisoned.

Owen blinked, feeling giddy and worried at the same time. He kept reading.



That is, to wit: Eredur the Crown Prince, a lad thirteen years of age; Eyric Duke of Yuork, age ten. Elysabeth, the eldest, fairest princess of the realm, whose fortune and grace are those of a queen. Selia, not so fortunate as fair. Bridget the virtuous. This noble prince of great fame, Eredur, deceased at his palace of Kingfountain, and, with great funeral honor and heaviness of his people, was put in a royal barge and commended to the river in the hopes that he would become the Dreadful Deadman prophecy fulfilled, and return from the watery grave. His body was taken by the Fountain, not seen hence.



—Eredur was not the Dreadful Deadman—

Owen started again when the voice whispered to him. His stomach clenched and twisted, his heart feeling like the burning coals in the brazier nearby. Owen was so wrapped up in reading, he could hear nothing else in the room. His eyes were fixed on the page.

He read next about how Eredur had taken the throne and the wars that had happened along the way. Much of this history he had learned from Ankarette.



Many nobles of the realm at Wakefield were slain, leaving three sons—Eredur, Dunsdworth, and Severn. All three, as they were great princes of birth, were great and stately, greedy and ambitious of authority, and impatient of partners. Eredur, revenging his father’s death, attained the crown. Lord Dunsdworth was a goodly, noble prince and at all points fortunate, if his own ambition had not set him against his brother and the envy of his enemies had not set his brother against him. For were it by the queen and the lords of her blood, the king was persuaded to hate his own brother or the proud appetite of the duke himself, intending to be king, Lord Dunsdworth was charged with heinous treason, and finally, attainted was he and judged to the death. Not thrown in the river, but drowned in a keg of wine. Whose death King Eredur, when he knew it was done, piteously bewailed and sorrowfully repented.



—Dunsdworth was poisoned by Ankarette Tryneowy. His craving of power and wealth made him go mad chasing the treasure in the cistern waters. Dunsdworth was not the Dreadful Deadman—

If the walls of the palace crumbled around him, Owen would not have noticed. He was so engrossed in the book he could not pull his eyes away. He read on.



Severn, the third son, of whom we now entreat, was in intellect and courage equal with either of his brothers, in body and prowess far beneath them both: little of stature, ill-featured of limbs, crook-backed—his left shoulder much higher than his right—hard-favored of visage, and warlike in his demeanor. He was malicious, wrathful, envious, and, from afore his birth, ever perverse. It is for truth reported that the duchess his mother had so much ado in her travail that she could not be delivered of him uncut, and, as the fame runneth, also not untoothed. Able captain was he in war, for which his disposition was much better met than for peace. He was close and secret, a deep dissembler, lowly of countenance, arrogant of heart; outwardly companionable where he inwardly hated, not refraining to kiss those whom he thought to kill; dispiteous and cruel, not for evil, but often for ambition. He slew with his own hand—