The Queen's Poisoner (The Kingfountain Series Book 1)

by Jeff Wheeler

  “Where is that little brat?” Mancini muttered from the doorway.

  When Owen heard the voice, his little heart shriveled like a prune. “Down here,” he called, pulling himself from under the bed. He rose disheveled, but the tears were all gone now.

  “You’ve been crying?” Mancini said aghast. “After all the king has given you, you’ve been crying?”

  “Ankarette is dead.”

  Mancini frowned. “It’s a miracle she was not dead hours ago. She was knifed several times after she snuck into Ratcliffe’s room at the inn. To think, it was all part of her plan.”

  Owen glared at him. “She’s under the bed, Mancini. I need your help. I can’t lift her on my own. She needs to go back to the Fountain. We need to get her into a boat.”

  Mancini sighed. “Lad, that’s just out of the question. I just became the temporary head of the Espion. I’m not about to lose it on some risky gamble with a corpse!”

  “No!” Owen said. “She needs to go back to the Fountain. A boat, Mancini. You need to arrange for a boat. She needs to go back to the Fountain!”

  Mancini stared at Owen as if he were being childish. “I am not superstitious, boy. All this talk of gurgling waters and dreams is a bunch of nonsense. We both know that. Ankarette Tryneowy was the most cunning woman living, as far as I’m concerned. But she’s dead now, and I wash my hands of her.”

  Owen was furious. He wanted to command Mancini to obey him, but he knew that people forced against their will were not persuaded. He needed to outthink Mancini, to maneuver his actions as if this were a game of Wizr. He felt a little trickle rippling through him. An idea came.

  “If you will do this for me, I will give you a stipend from my duchy independent of the king,” Owen said flatly, folding his arms.

  The fat man stared at him in surprise. “A stipend, you say? How much would this stipend entail, to be precise?”

  A number came to Owen’s mind. “Fifty florins a year. In Genevese coins.”

  Again Mancini looked startled. “My young man, you have yourself a bargain. I like how you think. You and I are going to be great friends from now on.”

  It was a tender farewell between the Kiskaddon brat and his family. Even I found myself dabbing an eye with a kerchief. The Assizes were a dreadful affair, with evidence brought, witnesses testifying, and verdicts rendered. There was a collective gasp of fearful breath when Duke Horwath read the guilty verdict against Lord and Lady Kiskaddon, followed by much weeping and anguish. They were beloved in Westmarch. But they gambled that King Severn would fail when they supported the pretender before Ambion Hill. When you gamble, you often lose. Now imagine, if you will, how the despair turned to joy when the king pronounced the punishment. Lord and Lady Kiskaddon and their sons and daughters would be banished from Ceredigion instead of meeting their fate at a river like Dickon Ratcliffe. And then the king proclaimed that their youngest son, the little brat, would inherit the duchy at eight years old. The tears of anguish turned to tears of rejoicing. Not a dry eye when the lad hugged his parents and kissed them in farewell. Except for Horwath—that man is made of stone! But what was even more pleasurable was knowing the outcome before the masses did. This is the way of politics and power. This is what I was born for!

  —Dominic Mancini, Master of the Espion

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  The North

  Owen had never been to the North before, and he was unprepared for the sights awaiting him. He rode on the back of the duke’s horse, as he had many times before, clutching the duke’s cloak. Owen’s toes were freezing in his fur-lined boots, and despite several layers of tunics, he still felt like shivering. His cheeks were pink, his nose hurt, but he stared in awe at the snowcapped mountains that rose in majestic plinths as far as the eye could see. This was a land with few farms, many rocks, and wild goats. And waterfalls! Owen was amazed at the huge waterfalls that roared down from the icy peaks, the sound a welcoming anthem to his senses.

  The horses of the duke and his men lumbered into a mountain valley, wedged between colossal shelves of rock and ice, exposing a huge castle and town in the heart of it. A mammoth waterfall cascaded from behind the castle, spellbinding in height and majesty. Even from their position, Owen could see a bridge at the crest of the falls, putting him in mind of a story Evie had once told him.

  “Ooohhh,” the boy uttered reverently, seeing the sights, feeling a prick of pain from his freezing nose.

  “It’s a tranquil place,” the duke said with a chuckle. “Except when my granddaughter is around.”

  Owen turned around and saw the soldiers accompanying them. Some bore the banners of the arrow-pierced lion. Some bore the blue shields and golden bucks of Kiskaddon. They were Owen’s men, his captains and ancients and councillors who would bear his orders back to the duchy and bring word to him in the mountains when his orders were fulfilled.

  The mountain air was absolutely delicious. As the horses reached the outer walls of the town, the trumpets from the castle sounded and the townsfolk began to crowd around them, cheering the two dukes they had heard were coming. Owen wore the glittering collar of his rank, the symbol of his power. He wore the badge now. He was the youngest duke in the realm. And it was all Ankarette’s doing. In the weeks that had passed since her body had been entrusted to the waters, he had thought of her often. He would always remember her. And with those memories, he had feelings and secrets he could share with no one else.

  No one except the girl waiting for them at the castle ahead. Owen reached into his pocket and felt her crumpled braid and squeezed it.

  As they reached the drawbridge of the castle, she could contain herself no longer. Owen saw Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer running down the wooden planks, squealing with happiness as she saw her grandfather and Owen riding up to meet her.

  “Go lad,” the grizzled duke said to Owen, giving him a wink.

  And by the time he had dropped down from the saddle, Evie had reached him and hugged him so hard he thought he might start crying for the first time in weeks.

  “Owen! Owen Kiskaddon! My Owen!”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  As Ovid once said, “a new idea is delicate.” The idea for this story has been in my mind for several years and has many sources for its inspiration. During my college years at San Jose State, I focused a lot on the War of the Roses in fifteenth-century England. I read many if not most of the histories written by contemporaries of the time and often took notes when discovering something interesting. The Kingfountain series is loosely based on the events of 1485 following Richard III’s ascension to the throne of England. In preparation for writing, I watched several versions of Shakespeare’s play and reread many of the histories I studied in college to help provide some of the details.

  One of the tiny details that I stumbled across in college regards Ankarette. In the sources, there is mention of a woman who sailed to Calais to persuade Edward IV’s brother George, Duke of Clarence, to rejoin his brother’s side and help him reclaim his lost crown. This girl is never named, but she is given credit by the chronicler for Edward’s success. I was curious about who this woman was and came to suspect that she was probably part of the Earl of Warwick’s household. Warwick was George’s father-in-law. She is never mentioned again, but I wrote a note about her in a spiral notebook, which I still have today.

  Following the life story of the Duke of Clarence further, I discovered that after his wife died giving birth, he accused the midwife of poisoning her and wanting to murder him. This woman did have a name—Ankarette Twynneowe. George had her arrested, illegally tried, and executed for murder, which he did without the approval of his brother, King Edward IV. It was this act of judicial murder that likely led to George’s own execution. As Shakespeare puts it, he was drowned in a barrel of malmsey wine.

  What if, I thought, George was telling the truth?

  The persona of the queen’s poisoner started to come together in my mind based on the historical person and some un
related facts I tied in. The cast of this novel is primarily based on real people in history who participated in real events. What would have happened if Richard III had won the Battle of Bosworth Field on August 22, 1485, instead of losing to Henry Tudor? Richard III has been in the news lately—his bones have been discovered in England, and he finally has been given a proper burial.

  Now a quick word on the Fountain. As I did the research for this book, I continued to stumble across references to fountains and water as I developed the magic system of this world. I read Little Lord Fauntleroy by Frances Hodgson Burnett, who has always inspired me. It’s the story of a young boy who softens the hard heart of his grandfather, the Earl of Dorincourt. The name Fauntleroy can be translated as “Kingfountain.” In Shakespeare’s play Richard III, the condemned George of Clarence has a nightmare in which he’s fallen overboard a ship. While drowning, he sees the magnificent treasures of the deep. The constable of the Tower of London, who is talking to him, is surprised he had the presence of mind to note the treasures while drowning. As I looked through other events of history, including the tales of the Mabinogion in Wales, I saw other references to the Fountain in there too. All these pieces helped come together.

  Last but certainly not least, I was inspired for this book by E. B. White’s Charlotte’s Web. I’d often thought it very moving and inspiring how Wilbur and Charlotte became so close.

  I’ve never written a book from the perspective of a young boy. I based the character of Owen on my youngest son. Many of his antics and traits were leveraged for Owen, including his penchant for reading at a young age and knocking down tiles. And yes, he does have a streak of white in his hair.

  In the second book of the Kingfountain Trilogy, you will find that seven years have passed and the world has changed. I hope you continue to enjoy Owen’s and Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer’s adventures in The Thief’s Daughter.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I told a few people about this story before actually sitting down to write it. One was my daughter Isabelle, and I could see by the look in her eyes that she thought it was special. So thanks, Isabelle, for listening to my brainstorms and talking through them with me. I’d also like to extend my gratitude and thanks to the folks at 47North for their amazing partnership and support. And to my loyal cohort of early readers for their input, enthusiasm, and encouragement, I offer my continued thanks (and freebies!): Gina, Emily, Karen, Robin, Shannon, and Sunil.

  And also to my fantastic editors—Jason Kirk and Angela Polidoro—whose early input and direction helped a palsied crew quit trembling!

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photograph © Kim Bills

  Jeff Wheeler took an early retirement from his career at Intel in 2014 to become a full-time author. He is, most importantly, a husband and father, and a devout member of his church. He is occasionally spotted roaming hills with oak trees and granite boulders in California or in any number of the state’s majestic redwood groves.

  Visit the author’s website: www.jeff-wheeler.com. Be sure to “follow” Jeff through his Amazon.com author page to be notified of his latest work.