Owen turned and looked at Evie pleadingly. “I saw it!” he insisted. “I felt it.”
She stared at him, her face wilting. Then she rushed over and hugged him again and started to cry.
I think Ratcliffe intends to murder the boy just as the princes were murdered. When the two brats ran off, I felt uneasy about them, so I hastened to follow. They had apparently discovered the way to the palace cistern. Ratcliffe found me observing them, and when I told him what was going on, a strange gleam came to his eye and he hurried away. That made me even more uneasy, so I tried to call the children back, but they couldn’t hear me. Shortly after, I heard screaming and broke down the door. The cistern waters were being drained into the river. I saved the children, dragging both of their soggy carcasses out of that pit. It took an hour to catch my breath afterward. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that it happened not long after Ratcliffe left me. And he meant, I think, to put the blame of their deaths on me. Well, two can throw the dice in a game of chance.
—Dominic Mancini, Espion of the Palace Cistern
CHAPTER THIRTY
Cursing
The entire palace was in an uproar when it was discovered that John Tunmore had escaped his cell. A search of the castle had been conducted throughout the night, and it was impossible for Owen to sleep amidst the torchlight and the racket of marching boots. His room was searched for the fugitive not once, but twice. He dared not visit Ankarette that night, for even the spy tunnels were being thoroughly searched.
The king was in such a rage that everyone was on tenterhooks. Owen and Evie were both feeling the aftereffects of the deadly peril from the previous day, and it was the first time Owen had ever known Evie to be quiet and soft-spoken. The two children stayed near each other during breakfast as the king ranted and raved, filling the air with blistering curses about the incompetence of his trusted servants, who stared at the king with open shock.
“And what have you learned thus far?” the king demanded hotly, his cheeks flushed, his nostrils white with anger. He hadn’t been shaved that morning, as he usually was, and his dark hair was untidy beneath his black felt hat.
Ratcliffe looked almost desperate. “From what I understand, Your Grace, he walked out of his cell on your orders.”
The king’s visage grew even fiercer. “And why, by the bloody Fountain, would I command his release, Dickon? Your people had him in the tower. Obviously one of them let him go!”
“That’s not true!” Ratcliffe said. “There was a paper given to the guard with your seal on it. A note written in your own hand, as they said, demanding the release of the prisoner, explaining that he was on a secret embassy from you and his capture was all part of the ploy. My lord,” he said, his voice lowering. “I have four men who swear they read this note!”
“Then where is it, Ratcliffe? Show it to me!”
A crumpled frown preceded the response. “It was thrown into the fire. But four men—!”
“I don’t care if a dozen men all swore they saw pigs fly!” the king thundered. “I did not order his release. My signet ring is on my hand, as you can see, and I assure you, Dickon, that I ordered no such thing! Why do I bother having an Espion if you bungle everything? This palace is riddled with rat holes. Tunnels and scratching claws. I detest it. And I’ve learned from Berwick that the cistern went dry and we’ll be hauling water from the river for days to refill it since the rains haven’t started.” He wiped sweat from his face, his mouth twisted into a brooding scowl. “Why am I surrounded by such ineptitude? Is there no man who can be true to his king?”
Ratcliffe’s face blackened at the king’s harsh words. His voice was thick with anger when he spoke again. “I am doing the best I can!” he seethed.
The king glared at him. “It’s not enough, Dickon. We’ve known each other for a long while and I consider you a friend. Even our wives were friends. But friendship is not enough. This duty is beyond you, man. This is a load on the halter you aren’t strong enough to pull!”
“Am I . . . an ox then?” Ratcliffe stuttered, coming dangerously close to losing control of his tongue. “You are whipping me like one!”