by Jeff Wheeler
Owen perked up and listened, for he loved reading about the Fountain-blessed. When he came across such a tale in a book, he would slow down and savor it. There were stories about knights who could not be defeated in battle. Sorceresses who wore helmets instead of headdresses and could summon rain and magic down on their enemies. The magic could manifest in so many different ways. Unfortunately, the stories rarely included enough detail. Even the gossip about the baker boy revealed nothing about how the magic happened.
Owen always spent the final hours of his day back in the kitchen. He was the first one there and the last to leave, and while he lived in a state of fear, he knew that he could find some measure of comfort and calm in that one sacred place.
Until Dunsdworth found out.
Owen was lost inside himself, ignoring the bustle of the kitchen as the cauldrons were scrubbed clean, the floors were swept—except where he knelt and arranged tiles—and dough was left to rise in bowls during the night. He heard none of the commotion, yet the commotion was part of the haze that made the kitchen so comfortable. He could not stand absolute silence, where every rattling lock or clomping bootstep could mean disaster. The noises of the kitchen, particularly Liona’s soothing voice and the orders she gave, helped create enough of a lull for him to concentrate on his tile stacking.
He knelt along the fringe, carefully building another section, when suddenly the entire thing came crashing down around him, startling him.
Owen rarely triggered a collapse himself anymore. He sat up, watching as the hours of work vanished in seconds, and then heard the sniggering chuckle behind him. He turned, his face turning white with rage when he saw Dunsdworth standing behind him, arms folded, his boot clearly the offender.
“Awww, poor lad!” Dunsdworth soothed with a wicked smile. “You should be more careful with your toys!”
A blistering pain of fury exploded in Owen’s skull. He began to shake with rage as he stared at the older boy with undisguised loathing.
Dunsdworth was twelve or thirteen and he was not a small lad. He was easily a head or two taller than Owen and even had muscles beneath his tailored doublet. A dagger sheath hung from his belt. He made it no secret that he longed to wear a sword as the adults did.
The look he gave Owen was provoking, as if he wanted the young boy to rush at him with fists drawn so he could enjoy knocking him down.
His sneer seemed to say—Well? What are you going to do about this?
With shaking hands, Owen stared at the devastation around him, at the ruins of his work, and he could barely think from the rage squeezing his heart. But he knew, instinctively, that Dunsdworth could overpower him.
“What? You say nothing?” the older boy scoffed. Then he lowered his tone. “You waste your time here, little Kisky. You should be in the training yard with me, earning some bruises that will make you into a man. Your father must be ashamed of you. Quit playing with toys. What? Are you going to cry? Shall I fetch a wet nurse to dry your eyes?”
Owen turned away, humiliated, and began to stack the tiles back into the box with trembling fingers. He would not try setting them up again. It was too late in the day for that. But he could not bear the antagonizing look on Dunsdworth’s face. And yes, he was afraid he would start crying.
Owen started again when the heel of Dunsdworth’s boot came down on some of the tiles and crushed them. The sound, so out of place in the kitchen, made his heart leap with fear. He turned and watched the older boy grinning at him, defying him to say anything. Staring into his eyes, Dunsdworth stomped again and cracked some more.
“Out! Get out of here!” Liona barked, storming up to the bully with a stern look. “Get you gone, Lord Dunsdworth. Out of my kitchen. Leave that little boy alone.”
Dunsdworth gave the approaching cook a disdainful look and hooked his thumbs in his wide leather belt.
“Poor boy, you mean,” Dunsdworth said saucily. He ground some more tiles under his heel. “Playing with bits and scraps like a beggar. I came because I was hungry. Give me a muffin, cook.”
“I should box your ears!” Liona said angrily. She was a short woman, but Dunsdworth was only twelve, so they were of a size. Though she looked angry enough to thrash him, the bully looked unconcerned.
“You touch me,” Dunsdworth warned, “and I’ll have my revenge.” He raised a hand and closed it around the dagger hilt. “Now fetch me a muffin!”
Liona scowled at him and huffed to herself, but she grabbed a leftover muffin from a tray and thrust it into his hand. Using the older boy’s distraction to his favor, Owen dragged his satchel nearer and furiously started picking up the rest of the fallen pieces before they too could be destroyed.
Dunsdworth took a bite, thanked Liona rudely with a wad of it in his mouth, and then sauntered out of the kitchen. Owen’s mind was black, but the imminent threat of pain was leaving and his smoldering heart began to cool. Heaving a sigh, Liona knelt by the fallen tiles and helped him collect them.
“I’ll ask Drew to find you some more,” she offered, touching his hand with her own. “That boy’s a rude sort. I hope we did not make an enemy of him today.”
Owen frowned and breathed through his nose. “You should see how the king talks to him,” he said. “He’s treated the worst of us all.”
“True, but that doesn’t excuse him to scold and tease smaller children. What sort of life is this?” She mopped her forehead. “Always living at risk of the king’s wrath.” She stopped gathering tiles, though she remained kneeling by him.
Owen looked at her and saw a strange expression in her eyes. “What is it, Liona?”
“You still wander the grounds with your maid?” she asked him softly.
He nodded, intrigued, as he grabbed another fistful of tiles and stacked them carefully in the box.
“You know the garden with the horse fountains and the hickory trees? It’s on the lower ring of walls.”
“I do,” Owen said, gazing into her eyes. The tiles were cold in his hands.
“There is a porter door in the wall,” she confided. “An iron door. They never lock it. The king’s Espion use it to get in and out of the palace without the guards seeing. Drew told me of it. I’ve not told a soul I know.” She paused and glanced over her shoulder again, licking her lips. “You cannot tell anyone that I told you, Owen,” she said, when she finally returned her gaze to him. “I would lose my place. Or worse. There is a trail leading down to the castle road that goes to the bridge to Our Lady. Get you to sanctuary, Owen.” She reached down and squeezed his knee. It tickled, though he knew that was not intended. “Seek out the queen dowager or her daughter, Elyse. Sometimes she is there. Even a child can claim sanctuary.” She rose in a hurry and busied herself by the bread ovens, then grabbed a fistful of flour from a sack and spread it on the table nearby. She looked pale and a little nervous and didn’t so much as glance at Owen again.
Owen was grateful for her help and excited by the possibility of escaping his life in the palace. He had arrived when the moon was half-full and now it was nearly full. If he managed to claim sanctuary, perhaps his parents could come and visit him? He was heartsick and missed them dreadfully.
After he finished cleaning up, he slung the satchel around his shoulder and started off to find Monah. It was after dark, so he would have to escape the next day. He had just the idea to slip away from his governess.
“I don’t wish to play the seeking game,” Monah complained, trudging after Owen down the hill. “There is a groomsman I want to talk to. Let’s visit the stables!”
Owen kept a strong pace, and the girl’s long skirts made it difficult for her to keep up with him. He was so excited that he had not been hungry all day, but he had still eaten as much as he could and slipped some food in his pockets for later. Worried that his sly thoughts might show in his eyes, Owen had done his best to stay away from the king and Ratcliffe.
“Slow down!” Monah said, tromping through a thin hedge. Owen wove between the shagbark hickories,
heading toward the wall. “Can we not go to the stables, Master Owen? I will get you a treat.”
“I want to play the seeking game!” Owen said firmly. He could hear the murmuring of the fountain as they came nearer. Soon he could see it, the circular fountain with the huge rearing horse in its midst. Beyond, he spied the porter door, and his heart raced with excitement.
He turned and grabbed Monah’s hand as she finally caught up to him. “I will hide first. You wait by the fountain and count to twenty! No . . . fifty! Then find me.”
Monah was breathing hard and came to rest on the fountain’s edge. Her dark hair was sticking to her forehead. “I don’t want to chase you through the garden, Master Owen. I’m weary. Let me catch my breath.”
“You won’t have to chase me,” Owen said, straining with impatience. “Once you find me, we’ll trade turns. You will hide, and I will find you.”
She winced and looked around the park, rubbing her arms. “The park is so big,” she said. “I don’t want to climb any trees. Why do you not wish to visit the stables? You said you liked horses.”
“No, I didn’t,” Owen said petulantly. “Please, Monah? I used to play the seeking game with my sister.” He gave her a pleading look and a small pout that always worked on his elders. He put his hand on her leg. “You are so like her.”
“How long must we play this?” she asked wearily.
“Four turns,” Owen said.
She frowned. “Two turns.”
“Four turns,” Owen insisted. “They will be quick. I won’t hide far, and you will be easy to find.”
She sighed with exasperation, then covered her eyes and started to count.
Owen sprinted away like a squirrel and took cover behind a tree far from the porter door. He hid in the crook where the branches forked, and he watched Monah as she counted. Over the babble of the fountain, he could not hear her. His heart raced with eagerness. He was going to make it more difficult for her to find him each time and then slip away on the fourth turn.
When she reached fifty, she rose and began walking in his direction. He deliberately let his head poke up from the forked branches so she could find him, though he pretended to be incensed to have been caught so soon. Then he quickly rushed back to the fountain, calling out loudly so that she could hear his counting over the noise of the water.
He spied her resting beneath a tree, her dark hair blending in with the bark, and gave her a little tickle when he found her. She squealed and scolded him before rushing off to the fountain for her next turn. A little pang of guilt threatened him. What would her punishment be for losing him? A scolding from Ratcliffe, probably. Owen’s freedom was worth that much.
But the little feeling of guilt still squirmed in Owen’s chest. Crushing it down as best he could, he hid in another spot, lying down by a hedge where she would have difficulty seeing him from a distance. His position gave him a view of the porter door and he found himself wondering if he would be strong enough to pull it open. What if the hinges were rusty?
He banished the thought and waited to be found. It took Monah longer this time, and she complained again about the game.
Owen decided he needed to try the door to see if it was too heavy. On his third turn, he quickly slipped away and approached the wall with the pitted metal door. There was a locking mechanism next to the iron handle. If the door was locked, he would be stuck. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Monah sitting at the fountain’s edge, her head back, her face angled toward the sun. She seemed to be enjoying herself, not counting at all.
The door was made of wrought iron and had wide slats, some going up and down, others going across. Inside the gaps were decorative iron flowers, so there was no way to see through it. Owen grabbed the cold metal handle and pulled.
The door swung open without a sound.
He quickly peered through the gap, beneath which the forest descended at a steep decline. There was a well-worn dirt trail, marred by horseshoe prints. The opening in the wall was big enough to admit an animal, though not with a rider in the saddle. It was undeniably the secret exit Liona had described. There were no guards posted down below, and the thicket beyond the door was dense enough to hide his passage.
There was no reason to wait.
In his mind, he heard Liona’s voice. If you are a brave little boy . . .
He glanced back one more time at Monah, sunbathing, her head tilted to one side. Fear painted shadows in his heart, but the thrill in his stomach chased those shadows away. Yes, Owen was brave. He was alone in the world now, so he needed to be. If he could find protection at the sanctuary, then it was well worth the risk. They would look for him in the kitchen. They would look for him all over the grounds. But they would not find him quickly enough to stop him.
Owen steeled his courage, feeling his legs wobble with the pent-up excitement. Then he slipped through the crack in the door, gently shut it behind him, and raced toward freedom.
The populace of Ceredigion is inherently superstitious, especially in regards to quaint traditions involving the Fountain. When there is a wish or an ambition that a husband, wife, or child wants fulfilled, they hold a coin in their hand, think hard on the wish, and then flick the coin into one of the multitude of fountains within the sanctuary of Our Lady. Coins glisten and shimmer beneath the waters. They return the next day and find the coin still there. Mayhap two days. But invariably the coins vanish and that poor soul believes the Fountain has accepted their offering and will consider their wish. I know for a fact that the sexton of Our Lady dons wading boots, grabs a rake, and harvests the coins for the king’s coffers every few days. He always leaves some behind, for a partially full fountain invites more donations to the king’s treasury. It is considered the height of blasphemy to steal a coin from a fountain. It amazes me how this superstition prevents even a hungry urchin from stealing a coin that would buy his bread. The children whisper that if you take from the fountain and are caught, you will be thrown into the river and whisked over the falls. The power that tradition wields over simple minds is truly amazing. Whenever some poor fool shows a natural talent, be it baking or growing flowers, how quick people are to announce that person as blessed.
—Dominic Mancini, Espion of Our Lady of Kingfountain
CHAPTER EIGHT
Her Majesty
Owen was breathing hard by the time he left the woods and started down the road. Sweat slicked his hair to his forehead, and he joined the carts and wagons and torrent of folk marching along toward the bridge. He worried that he would be spotted by the guards and seized at the gate, so he searched the crowd for a group of people who looked like a family. As soon as he found one, he increased his speed and fell in step with them as they passed the gatehouse. No one paid him any notice.
After leaving the shadow of the portcullis, Owen felt his nervous heart begin to give way to a thrill of excitement. Monah was probably still searching for him, and even after she reported him missing, it would take time before anyone figured out how he had escaped. His plan was simple. Go to the princess’s mother in the sanctuary of Our Lady and beg enough coins to hire a coach to take him back to Tatton Hall. He knew of dozens of places he could hide on the grounds, without his parents’ knowledge, and he would live among them as a ghost. It was a three-day ride by horseback to Westmarch, which meant a wagon would take longer, but the thought of being back home in a week made him grin with eagerness. He would trick the king and no one would be the wiser. Not even his parents would know where he was, so it would not be their fault if Owen was missing. He was still hurt that they had chosen him to go to the palace, but he didn’t want them to get in more trouble.
As he crossed the bridge, his confidence began to wane and his stomach started to growl. He broke off a crust from his pocket and chewed it slowly to ease his hunger. Every noise made him whirl around and stare back, as if twenty knights wearing the badge of the white boar might be charging after him. Beneath him he could feel the churn of waves crashing against
the bridge and hear the roar of the waterfall. He feared he would never make it, and yet the sanctuary drew closer.
It was a beautiful structure, but he had gazed at it with dull eyes when Horwath had brought him past it weeks ago. Still, he remembered all the grubby men loitering at the gates and felt a shiver of dread. The clomp of hooves startled him, and he moved to the side quickly as a rider passed. Owen felt the panicked sensation that everyone was looking at him. He refused to meet anyone’s gaze as he pressed onward.
As he walked, he took notice of the brickwork along the island wall that defended the earth from being washed away. There were patterns in the bricks he had not noticed before, perhaps because huge clumps of hanging ivy covered part of the brickwork, one batch hanging low enough to tease the waters rushing by at great speed. A fence surrounded the entire grounds of the sanctuary, which was on the north side of the island in the midst of the river. Huge trees towered up beyond the fence, and on the side facing Owen, he spied a huge circular stained-glass window in the shape of a sundial. Spikes and turrets rose from the edges, and long gutters and support struts held up the walls. It was narrow and tall and a huge steeple jutted from the crown of the structure, high enough to pierce the clouds.
Owen was so busy gazing at the structure that he stumbled against the backside of a man pushing a cart and earned a quick scolding for his carelessness.
After crossing the bridge onto the island, Owen bent his way toward the main gates. Sure enough, there were feckless men loitering there. Owen mustered his courage and walked through the gates, feeling a jolt of relief once he had passed them. No man could force him from these grounds. Not even the king.
None of the fountain-men, who were muttering among themselves, paid him any mind. Owen gazed at the tall posts with lamps dangling from hooks high above. There were families walking the inner parks and his heart grew sore at the sight of them. He hungered to see his family again, even from afar, and to calm himself, he reflected on where he would hide first when he returned to his estate.