“Be silent!” the king reprimanded. “Hear the news first before you begin babbling. Go on, Dickon.”
Ratcliffe cleared his throat. “He was caught, you may be sure, in the port of Brugia. He was never very far from Ceredigion. A boat was waiting for him in case he needed to escape quickly. A boat paid for by the King of Occitania, if my suspicions hold true. The Espion used it to smuggle him back here.”
“Facts, Dickon,” the king scolded. “Let’s keep to the facts first. Tell them what you found with Tunmore.”
“Yes, my lord. Of course.” Ratcliffe’s anger was stirring, but he kept his tone civil. “He had a book on his person. A private history, to be precise. I have it here.” He withdrew a black leather-bound book, small enough to fit in his hand. “Entries, dates, scribblings, musings. Lots of nonsense about the Fountain, really. But it is clear he was plotting something. He’s been in hiding for nearly two years and played a complicit role in the attempted usurpation. I believe—we believe—the information in here will implicate many.” He waggled the book.
“Only two years ago?” Severn said, his voice cold. “I’d forgotten. It feels so much longer than that.” He pushed away from the wall and strode to the table, limping slightly, an angry frown on his mouth. “Yes, two years ago he plotted to murder me, my wife, and my son. My wife is dead. My son is dead. No doubt he wishes to finish what he started when he seduced Bletchley into treason. For all we may suspect, he was likely behind that pretender’s claim to my throne as well. Tunmore is an eel. The lad was right about that.”
Ankarette, listening keenly, flashed Owen a secret smile.
“What lad?” asked one of the prelates. “The Kiskaddon boy? Was there another prophecy?”
The king’s countenance softened remarkably and his eyes took on the same shining look Evie’s got whenever she talked about the cistern. “Indeed.”
Ratcliffe held up his hands. “Let’s not be hasty, Your Majesty, in ascribing the boy’s powers to anything beyond coincidence or cunning.”
“Twice he’s done it,” Severn said. “Twice! The first you could ascribe to coincidence, if a fantastic one. But the second? He knew something before you did!”
There were grumbles of concern and interest amongst the councillors, one of them begging to know what had happened.
The king silenced them with a wave of his hand.
“The boy had another vision,” Severn said, pacing slowly along the table’s edge with his hobbled gait. “This was not a dream at night like before. It was a day vision. He saw an eel caught by a hook. A rat was holding the fishing pole.” He gave Ratcliffe a meaningful look. “And then news arrives that Tunmore, the Deconeus of Ely, was caught in Brugia—on a hook—by the Espion. The lad is blessed, I tell you. He is Fountain-blessed with the gift of foresight!”
Ankarette smiled and squeezed Owen’s hand. He smiled back at her, giddy that her plan was working out so well.
“The question, I ask you,” the king continued, “is if I have the authority to execute a prelate of the realm. A man purportedly sanctioned by the Fountain. This man has been a raw blister on my heel for these many years. Lest we forget, he was the one who helped write up the truce terms with Occitania ten years ago. Truce terms that shamed my brother—shamed us all!—when Occitania repudiated them. He was a member of this council two years ago.” He tapped his forefinger on the table. “Others more noble than he have paid for their treachery with their lives. Yet he has been immune from the consequences of treason. What say you, council? Do we see if the Fountain will pardon this man when we throw him into the river?”
One of the lesser nobles raised his hand. “What does the child say?”
The king looked at him, confused.
“The child’s last prediction. You recall it! He said the pinecone fell into the river. In this vision, the hook saved the eel from the river, did it not?”
“A good point, Rufus,” said one of the prelates, seated on his left. “It did indeed! It saved the eel from the river!”
The king turned to look at Ratcliffe, who had rushed up to him. “My lord,” said the spymaster, hardly able to contain his agitation. “My lord, you cannot look to a boy as your source of knowing the Fountain’s will! You would risk far too much, it would be—”
“A miracle?” the king interrupted softly. The room settled down, but Owen’s stomach churned in anticipation.