“Come here, boy,” the queen mother said to Owen, her voice soft but urgent.

Owen’s legs were shaking violently, but he managed to close the gap separating him from the queen mother as the burly man continued his approach. The cap was off Ratcliffe’s head, crushed in his fist, and his balding dome looked moist with sweat. He was livid but also flushed with relief to have found Owen.

“There—you—are—young—man!” he barked angrily in a clipped tone. He closed the distance with several long strides, attracting the gaze of everyone in the room, which made Owen cower against the queen mother’s gown. She put her hand on his shoulder and he saw the glittering jewel of the coronation ring on her hand.

“This is supposed to be a quiet sanctuary, Ratcliffe,” the queen mother chastised. “Please . . . you will offend the Fountain. Lower your voice.”

His teeth gnashed in fury. “I should have known he would seek refuge here!”

“What are you raving about?” she answered patiently. “This boy? I have never seen him before in my life. Who is he?”

“Owen Kiskaddon,” Ratcliffe snarled. “The king’s hostage.”

The queen laughed lightly. “Ah, your anger makes sense now. I was beginning to think you had lost your wits. You think I summoned him here?”

“He is standing before you, isn’t he?” Ratcliffe said, raising his voice. “How did you manage it, Lizzy? I truly wish to know.”

Owen could tell that the name he used was meant as an insult by the way she bridled her reaction.

“Obviously the Fountain led the boy here, Ratcliffe. I heard he was in the palace, of course, but I did not bring him here. We had not even met until just a moment ago. But I will remind you, sir, that he has the protection of sanctuary and you cannot force him to leave. Severn wouldn’t dare violate it, not after all he has done! The people would revolt. Somehow the boy managed to find his way here, and here he will stay, under my protection.”

Ratcliffe looked as if he would have a seizure of anger. “The king will not tolerate this!” he growled. “Can the Fountain shield you from his wrath? Your daughter enjoys the privilege of coming back and forth. Shall she become his hostage instead?”

Owen’s heart quailed at the words, fearing what would happen to the princess. He gave the queen a worried look.

She laughed scornfully. “You and I both know he wouldn’t do that. Now be gone, Ratcliffe. Before I call for the sexton. Out.”

Ratcliffe’s fists trembled with fury. He looked at Owen then, his eyes full of daggers. “Come with me, boy. Now. Come back with me to the castle.”

Owen stared at the man and shook his head.

“When the king finds out about this . . .” Ratcliffe snarled, his lips quivering.

“It appears he already has,” came a voice from the doorway. It was the deconeus, attended by the sexton. “He is mounting the steps right now, Lord Ratcliffe. The king is here.” He turned and bowed graciously. “Welcome to Our Lady, sovereign lord.”

Owen’s eyes widened with terror and he felt the queen’s hand tighten on his shoulder.

“No matter what he says, do not let him touch you,” the queen whispered in warning.

CHAPTER NINE

The King’s Voice

The king was annoyed. Owen could see that emotion burning in his gray eyes, twisting his mouth into a scowl, and twitching in his cheek muscle. The limp from his wound was becoming less pronounced, but it was still there, and Owen could hear the distinct sound of his shuffling steps before he saw his face.

The king wore his black and gold. The usual dagger was in his belt, accompanied by a large, scabbarded sword that had seen many years of war. A trickle of sweat fell down the side of his face. His long black hair was windswept, giving him a wild appearance. The queen mother’s nails dug into Owen’s shoulder, making him flinch.

“Remember,” she whispered to Owen.

“My liege,” Ratcliffe said with astonishment. “How come you this way? I was going to send word for you—”

“When, Ratcliffe? When my hair turned gray? You thought I would not want to know that my hostage had fled? Why is it that I must learn these things from my niece rather than from the head of the Espion!” The king’s wrath was focused on Ratcliffe at the moment, but Owen felt his blood turn cold with fear, knowing it would turn on him.

“My . . . my lord!” Ratcliffe stammered. “It was my man who told me the boy was here! I had only just learned of it and wanted to confirm the news with my own eyes first!” Ratcliffe wrung his hands, looking as if he feared for his neck.