The King's Traitor (The Kingfountain Series Book 3)

by Jeff Wheeler

  He rubbed his bleary eyes on the back of his hand and sat up, feeling the warmth from her sitting so near. She glided her fingers through his hair one last time and then nestled her hands in her lap. The look of yearning she gave him made him deeply uncomfortable.

  “How late is it?” he asked, chagrined. The curtains were closed, but the room was dark. It was still the middle of the night. He scooted back until he was sitting up, but she did not give up her seat on the edge of the couch.

  “I made sure the room was secured,” she said, looking over at the curtained window. “The latches are all fastened and set with traps. The bed looks infinitely more comfortable than the couch. There’s some cold capon and cheese over there from the earlier meals served by the castle staff. They didn’t expect you to arrive unannounced, so they’re staying up late to make sure things are ready in the morning.” She smiled at him. “I would have left you, but the door cannot be barred from outside. I didn’t want to leave you so . . . so vulnerable.”

  That was a good word to describe the way he was feeling. He was exhausted from the long ride from Kingfountain. He’d anticipated a quick respite at Tatton Hall, but was in no mood to humor rich heiresses.

  Etayne’s eyes narrowed. “You haven’t told me how your trip to the North went.” She reached up and smoothed hair from his brow. “Was it as painful as you suspected? You made it before Lord Horwath passed away?”

  Owen let out a pent-up breath. The room was lit by an assortment of thick candles offering a small glow. He pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes, and thought hard about the question.

  “It was painful, to be sure,” he told her honestly. “She’s happy with her life. With her children. Even her husband wasn’t too intolerable,” he added wryly. “She’s moved forward, that’s clear. I feel as if I’m stranded on a foreign shore now.”

  Etayne nodded sagely. One of the many things he appreciated about her was that she was an excellent listener, and even though he knew she cared about him, she never tried to push her feelings on him.

  “You weren’t tempted to make her forget Iago?” she prodded.

  “By the Fountain, no!” Owen said with a frown of disgust. “I could never do that to her. Nor could I look her in the eye afterward.” He gave her a solemn look. “She wants me to be happy. To find someone else to love.” He shook his head. “It’s not so easy as that.”

  Etayne nodded sympathetically. “Your marriage will be commanded by the king, it seems. As hers was. Do you think this duchess could win your heart?”

  Owen scowled. “I’m pretty confident she’ll hate me for what I’m about to do. The king doesn’t expect us to marry. He made it patently clear that we’re going to Brythonica to start a war, not form a marriage alliance. I’m supposed to offend her, not woo her. I’m more than capable of that.”

  She gave him a knowing smile. “Oh, you are quite adept at spoiling hopes, my lord.” She fussed with the front of his tunic. “There are no Espion working in Brythonica, so we are going there blindly. What have you heard about it?”

  “Most of what I know is from the mayor of Averanche. The fashions in Occitania are quite different from those in Ceredigion or Atabyrion. I’ve heard she’s a pretty lass, but it’s well known that she rarely gives audiences. You’ll be studying her closely, I am sure,” he said with a conniving smile.

  Etayne dimpled. “You know me so well.”

  “I’m expecting trouble from Marshal Roux. Facing him on the battlefield may actually prove a challenge.”

  “Not for you, surely!” she said teasingly.

  Owen shook his head and chuckled. Feeling restless, he started to rise from the couch, and she stood to let him up. “How long was I asleep?”

  “An hour perhaps. I thought you’d sleep longer. Aren’t you tired?”

  “I am,” he said, stretching his arms. “I’m not going to Brythonica without an escort. A hundred men will do, I think. I don’t want to appear too aggressive or distrusting.”

  She took a step toward the door before stopping abruptly. “In the game of Wizr, sometimes there are no easy moves left,” she said. She gave him a knowing look. “Each one requires a sacrifice. Let me be blunt, Owen. You intend to topple the king.” Her voice was very low and serious. “We’ve discussed this for years. Severn hasn’t named an heir yet. You believe his heir should be Kathryn’s son. He’s the Dreadful Deadman. How can you make that happen without deposing Severn Argentine?”

  Owen stared at the bed, longing to drop into the oblivion of sleep. “I’m still working on it,” he said vaguely. His ideas were still not fully formed. How he wished Ankarette were here to advise him. She would have had it all figured out by now.

  Etayne shook her head. “Your loyalties are conflicted. I can see it on your face. You are compelled to obey a king that you no longer respect. Out of duty. But your mind tells you that he’s not the man you once served. And your support of him only strengthens his malice. The other leaders of the realm look to you to act first.”

  “Hardly,” Owen countered. “They look to their own interests. Catsby is now the duke of the North and he will plunder everything Horwath built up. He’ll strip Dundrennan to its bones. Evie and Iago may eventually persuade the king to give it up, but what they’ll end up with will cost them more than it benefits them. I’ve seen the same thing happen to other lords of the realm. Even if I were to marry the duchess, do you think the king would allow me to keep so much power?” He snorted.

  “Then what are you waiting for?” Etayne pressed with growing frustration in her voice. “The king to grow old and die? Owen, he’s barely fifty. He’s still as strong and hale as he was twenty years ago. Why do you wait?”

  Owen stared at her. She had asked an honest question, and it deserved an honest answer. He sighed wearily. “Sit down on the couch, Etayne. This may take a while to explain.”

  “I’m not tired,” she said, but she promptly obeyed.

  He went to the table next to the couch and fetched his goblet. He took a sip of the currant wine and winced. It was a bit tart. He set it down and then perched on the edge of the couch, looking down at the poisoner.

  “Have you heard the story of the Duke of Bollinger?” he asked.

  Etayne frowned and shook her head. “No. Was he from our history?”

  Owen nodded. “Bollinger is the name of the royal castle in East Stowe. That’s where he was born, so it became his common name. Until he became king. From then on, he was known as Henricus Argentine.”

  Her eyes widened with understanding. “Yes, I do know that name.”

  Owen continued. “Elysabeth told me this story years ago. She loves history more than I do. Henricus was the Duke of East Stowe. The king at the time, much like Severn, was a brash man who pitted his nobles against each other. His marriage was childless, so he had no heir. You can imagine the infighting that occurred as the many Argentine cousins sought to be named his heir. One of these was Bollinger.”

  Etayne looked thoughtful. “He was banished from the realm, wasn’t he? I do recall something about that.”

  Owen was impressed. “It was over an argument he had with another duke. The two of them were snarling like hounds for scraps, so the king banished them both. The duke of the North was banished for life. Bollinger was banished for a set time. While he was gone, the king plundered his lands to support a war against the island of Legault. The king was still embroiled in that fight when Bollinger returned, demanded his rights as duke, and proceeded to topple the king. The kingdom rallied behind him, and he was named Henricus. He spent the rest of his life trying to hold on to the power he had seized.”

  Owen rose from the couch and began pacing. “Do you ever get the feeling, Etayne, that history plays itself over and over? Like some sort of farce where actors assemble and assume different roles? I feel like I’m Bollinger. That events are trying to force me to play a certain part.” He rubbed his jaw, feeling the untidy whiskers there. He hadn’t shaved in weeks. He di
dn’t care.

  “You feel you should claim the throne?” she asked him softly, almost eagerly.

  “No!” he shot back, dousing the flame before it struck the tinder of his ambitions. “But I can see why Bollinger was tempted to do it. It’s the same reason Severn took the seat. He worried about losing his wife and son after Eredur died. He was the duke of the North, a powerful man, and he feared it would be stripped away from him so that the queen dowager’s children could inherit. Of course he fought for it! And I feel the same destiny dragging me toward the same course. But I want to fight it, Etayne.” He looked at her, his eyes blazing with energy. “I don’t want to be told what to do. I don’t want to be swept away on a current that transforms me into another Severn.” His voice fell to a whisper. “I fear that most of all. Losing myself. I already talk like him,” he said dejectedly.

  Etayne rose from the couch, her look serious and contemplative. She touched the side of his face. “You are not Severn Argentine.”

  “Yet,” Owen said. “But I feel it inside me. I feel the anger. The frustration. The helplessness. The role of the conniving uncle will next be played by Owen Kiskaddon!” he said passionately. “Have you ever felt that you don’t have a choice? That the Fountain’s current is too strong? I’m trying to swim against it, Etayne. But I’m so tired already. I’m already weary and I’m still a young man. Will there come a day when I gather children around me for fear of poison?” He gave her a pleading look.

  Her demeanor was serious. His words had struck something inside her.

  “That’s why you won’t murder him,” she said, nodding. “Because that’s what he would have done.”

  He shook his head. “No. Because it’s wrong. I know all the kings use poison on their enemies, but I believe a king should be a protector, not a destroyer. When Eredur died, Ankarette was gone. She was away on some sort of assignment. I never knew what. I think she was in Occitania, but I can’t remember, to be truthful. Why was she sent away? What would have happened if she hadn’t been gone? I shudder to think of it. I might be a feckless young nobleman in my father’s house, wishing one of those simpering girls I left back there would notice me. I’d be gibbering in fear. I would never have met Evie.” He shrugged. “I wouldn’t have known you.”

  She smiled at the gallant comment, her expression so pleased he regretted saying it. She shook her head. Her wig was blond. He had seen her wear so many disguises, so many faces, he wondered if she even knew who she was anymore.

  “So you are swimming against the current,” she said succinctly. “Trying to avoid a fate you may not be able to.”

  “To do otherwise would make me into a monster next,” Owen said. “I would avoid that if I could.” He turned away from her and walked over to the bed, feeling so weary. “After telling me the story of Bollinger, Elysabeth said she wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t assumed the throne after all. If he had completed his exile. Who knows how long the king would have ruled. But I can imagine how furious he must have been to watch his duchy be gutted, his inheritance surrendered to others. I can imagine how Elysabeth is feeling right now. She’s in a similar position.”

  He felt Etayne come up behind him, but he nearly flinched when her fingers began massaging his shoulders. “You have enough worries, Owen. You’ll need your wits about you when you meet the Duchess of Brythonica and her marshal. Can I stay with you? To watch over you while you sleep?”

  He knew her offer was simply that, an offer to watch and protect him. He found her loyalty refreshing, for many of the Espion strove for personal glory. But she could not stay. The same soft touch that was easing the tight muscles in his shoulders was also invoking stirrings of pleasure. His body was rebelling against him. He knew everyone thought he and Etayne were more than merely friends. It would be so easy to surrender to others’ expectations. She would never betray him.

  But he couldn’t do that. He shook his head slowly no.

  Etayne’s eyes crinkled a bit as the rejection came, but she was an excellent actress. She walked slowly to the door and then twisted the handle. “Don’t forget to bolt it,” she reminded him.

  After she was gone, he slid the bolt into place. He could still sense her standing on the other side of the door. Owen felt a growl of selfishness unleash itself inside his heart. Why not find comfort and solace in a willing girl? She knew he didn’t love her that way. She didn’t care. He kicked the thought in his mind to silence it. When he was a young boy, old Stiev Horwath had told him a story that he had never forgotten. That inside each person lives two wolves. One was full of evil, jealousy, anger, resentment. The other wolf was kind, benevolent, generous, and dutiful.

  Owen had asked how someone could survive with two such beasts inside them. Would not one of them eventually win? Duke Horwath had given him a crinkled smile.

  “Which wolf wins?” he had asked. “The one that you feed.”

  It was clear which one Severn was nourishing.

  He walked away from the door.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Lady Sinia

  Owen summoned his host, and after a much-needed day of rest, prepared to depart for Ploemeur. He carefully pored over the Espion maps of the realm, growing frustrated by the vagueness he found there. Brythonica was much smaller than Westmarch, and he could only name three cities, two rivers, and the main road. There were several densely wooded areas, game parks as the mayor of Averanche had once explained to him, several of which bordered his own lands, but as to their size and borders, the map was empty.

  Giving it some thought, he decided it would be best to meet the king’s expectations quickly and ruthlessly. He ordered his men not to wash their tunics, and he himself wore the most travel-stained outfit he could find amongst his possessions. He intended to arrive dust-spattered and ill-kempt. Surely the duchess was accustomed to being courted by those intending to impress her, and Owen had no intention to follow suit. His goal was to offend her as quickly as possible, laying bare Severn’s machinations for her duchy, and then retreat back to Westmarch to work on his plan to make Eyric and Kathryn’s son the heir of Ceredigion.

  The weather could not have been more perfect, which made for a pleasant ride through the countryside. The air had the salty tang of the sea to it, for Brythonica was a jagged inlet along the coast of Occitania, full of grottos and lagoons and sweet-smelling eucalyptus trees that were towering and ancient. Etayne rode at his side, hooded and mysterious, as they crossed the border between Averanche and Brythonica. Shortly after entering the domain, they were hailed by warriors bearing the Raven tunic of Brythonica, but the border guards were totally outnumbered by Owen’s men. When they learned Duke Kiskaddon was coming to meet the duchess, they blanched, let him pass, and undoubtedly sent riders dashing ahead to forewarn their ruler.

  The land was full of rolling hills and valleys, lush parks, and manors with sculpted gardens that reminded Owen of Tatton Hall. The roads crisscrossed through spacious fields full of line after line of thick green berry bushes. There were strawberries, thimbleberries, honeysuckle, currants, and bilberries. The variety of colors and smells was pleasant and inviting, and Owen was impressed by the industry he saw. Everywhere he looked, foragers were working their way down the orderly rows, gently collecting the berries into small boxes strapped to their bodies. At the edges of the fields yet more peasants stacked crates of berries into wagons for shipment to the port cities. Despite all the work, there was a calm, comforting feeling in the air.

  Several leagues into the countryside, they came across a road running alongside one of the game parks. The forest was thick and overgrown. It would have been difficult for horses to pass. Owen felt a strange sensation as he stared at the majestic eucalyptus and redwood trees, almost as if the forest were alive and gazing back at him. He saw squirrels rushing through the undergrowth, some climbing the trees and perching on limbs, their huge gray tails swishing as they moved. There was a ruckus from the birds lodged in the high branches.

&nbs
p; After passing the woods, they reached another valley filled with even more farms and lush fields. These were more heavily populated than the ones Owen had seen earlier in the day. There were beautifully built villas occupying each hilltop, but no fortifications could be seen, and their walls appeared to be made of wood and plaster rather than stone. They were retreats, not structures intended for safety. Owen hadn’t seen a single castle along the journey, which gave the land a vulnerable feel. It would be easy to march an army on the packed-earth roads. The only natural barriers were the occasional woods, but those wouldn’t be suited for soldiers. A heartsick feeling struck him at the thought of this beautiful place being trampled and ravaged by war.

  As they traveled deeper into the country, Owen felt the unmistakable sensation of the Fountain all around him, but there was no obvious source. There were none of the massive rivers and waterfalls that marked Ceredigion, and while each villa appeared to have a fountain in the courtyard, they were too distant to be heard. The lapping of the canals was so gentle it was almost unnoticeable. The gentle murmur of the Fountain seemed to be coming from the land itself, which he had never experienced before. He sensed it in the peasant farmers working joyfully in their gardens. He heard it in the air of music coming from the small villages. He saw maypoles and flowered garlands. There were many children dashing around, playing games. Their voices seemed to conjure the magic of the Fountain. In his mind’s eye, he imagined what it would have been like to grow up here, playing in such a carefree way, basking in the magic of this land.

  Owen turned to look at Etayne, only to catch her gazing longingly at the scene.

  “Do you feel it?” he whispered to her.

  Her eyes were serious, almost sad. “I feel it everywhere,” she answered softly. “What is this place?”

  Owen shook his head, not certain what to make of it—a sensation that only heightened as they continued to ride into the land, intent on reaching the capital of Brythonica by nightfall. The valleys and hills were so idyllic it almost felt sacrilegious to ride hastily past them. Peasants working near the roads lifted their caps and waved at the strangers, as if totally unconcerned by the foreign soldiers in their midst. Owen spied an old man resting against the trunk of a eucalyptus, surrounded by sunny-haired grandchildren, one of whom was peeling long strips of bark from the tree. The grandfather tickled a squealing girl, which made Owen smile despite his desire to appear stern.