The Maid's War

Book 3: The Poisoner of Kingfountain

by Jeff Wheeler

Genres: Epic Fantasy; Historical Fantasy; Fantasy action & adventure; Arthurian; Romantic Fantasy; Sword & Sorcery; Young adult; YA Epic Fantasy

Synopsis

From Wall Street Journal bestselling author Jeff Wheeler:

Sent on an impossible mission by Kingfountain’s ruler into the heart of the enemy’s capital as two mighty kingdoms prepare for war, Ankarette Tryneowy must divine the location of a magical sword, perhaps their key to victory. What she finds is the truth—one she could never have foreseen.

Searching for Firebos, the sword of ancient kings, is no simple task. It disappeared after one of the most powerful Fountain-blessed figures, the Maid of Donremy, used it in battle, and no one—except perhaps the Maid’s dearest friend, the Duke of La Marche—knows its whereabouts. But when Ankarette finds the aging duke in his prison cell and hears the mystery he unveils, her mission becomes more perilous than she could have possibly imagined

Release date: February 27, 2023

Publisher: Oliver Heber Books

Print pages: 302

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

The Queen’s Poisoner

 

The sound of laughter, conversation, and clinking goblets drifted in from the overcrowded ballroom down the corridor. Music bubbled over the din. The celebration seemed a little too exuberant considering the kingdom was facing yet another war with Ceredigion. Ankarette Tryneowy paused before a pillar, watching the light from the torch mirrored on the polished marble floor. She’d heard a sound, the clip of a boot, and wondered if she was being followed by a drunken Occitanian lord more interested in trying to steal a kiss than in returning to the rough camp of the army hunkering around the city of Pree.

The sound of shuffled steps in heavy boots came from behind, followed by a grunt and a slurred bit of Occitanian. She paused, adjusting her skirts, and then wobbled slightly and caught her hand on the pillar, giving the impression that she’d had too much to drink. As she pressed her stomach and breathed deeply, she dug her fingers into the folds of her dress, ready to seize the dagger hidden there to defend herself.

Ankarette’s delicate beauty conveyed the impression of defenselessness, but she was his majesty’s poisoner, the most dangerous woman in her realm. If she hadn’t been, her king would never have sent her into the heart of the enemy’s capital on the eve of war to seek a man who was one of the Occitanian crown’s most notorious prisoners. The army of Ceredigion was encamped several leagues away on the other side of a river—the farthest they had marched into Occitania since the invasion that had led to their stunning victory at the Battle of Azinkeep. No cities had been taken as of yet, but the threat of conflict seethed in the air like smoke. Her instincts were taut and ready for battle.

The shuffling steps halted and then she heard the unmistakable sound of a man relieving himself against a stone wall. If he was that drunk, he posed no threat to her at all. Still, she did not lower her guard until the drunken lord staggered past her, oblivious to her presence even then. She thought for a moment that it might be a ruse, that this man was one of King Lewis’s poisoners, come to kill her, but the man’s bleary eyes, shuffling steps, and moans indicated liver infection. He must have been a man who frequently indulged in such nocturnal pleasures. Soon he was gone, and Ankarette let out a sigh of relief.

Moments later, a little palace drudge appeared with a bucket and rags and began mopping up the mess the nobleman had left reeking against the wall. The waif was a pretty little thing, but she could be no more than eight. She should not have been kept up so late. Ankarette had observed many such drudges in the palace, lurking in the shadows to earn their bread by serving the whims of the Occitanian nobility. They were invisible to most people and treated like dogs.

Turning from the column, she approached the girl and sank down onto her knees to be at her level. The waif blinked in surprise, taking in Ankarette’s rich, fashionable gown and her delicately coiffed hair.

“Shouldn’t you be abed?” Ankarette asked the child in a quiet, kind voice, reaching out and brushing some of the girl’s hair away from her face. Her Occitanian was fluent, but she knew the capital Pree had its own flairs. Hopefully, her accent would suffice.

The girl seemed even more surprised by the show of compassion. “No, my lady. I napped earlier, but the fête is almost finished and we’ll be cleaning till dawn.”

It was only just after midnight. “That’s a shame,” Ankarette said, patting the girl’s cheek. “It must be difficult cleaning up the messes of others.”

The waif sniffed and shrugged. “You have a strange accent,” the girl said offhandedly, dipping a rag into the bucket.

Children always noticed things that others passed over. Ankarette had made it a rule never to underestimate their usefulness.

“I’m not from Pree,” Ankarette responded vaguely. “You have a different accent in the city.”

The girl nodded, accepting her explanation. Another thing Ankarette had learned about children was their natural inclination to be trusting—most of them knew nothing of spies and the machinations of court. Ankarette continued speaking with her for several moments—the girl was chatty, and Ankarette soon had her revealing helpful information. The King of Occitania had been assembling all the princes of the blood in preparation for whatever conflict was to come.

And then the waif said something that made Ankarette blink in surprise. “All the princes save La Marche. The king will keep him trapped in that awful tower.”

“The Duke of La Marche is here as well?” Ankarette asked. Her heart swelled with relief that the king’s Espion had been correct. She had secretly dreaded that the duke was being held deep in the hinterlands in some faraway dungeon.

The girl shrugged as she squeezed the rag into the bucket once more. The floor was polished and gleaming now. “Of course. He’s the king’s prisoner,” she said carelessly. “He’s been captive here for years. I like him. He never scolds me.”

Ankarette leaned forward eagerly, showing unfeigned interest. “The real duke of La Marche?” she pressed. “The one who fought alongside the Maid of Donremy?”

The waif nodded with sudden fire and delight. The story of the Maid was renowned throughout all the kingdoms. Even though the woman who had freed Occitania from Ceredigion’s hegemony had died a traitor, she was now remembered as one of the most celebrated Fountain-blessed of all. “Oh yes! He’s told me stories about her.”

“Has he? You are a lucky young woman.”

The girl blushed. “I’m not a woman yet. I’m only eight.”

“I wish I could meet him,” Ankarette sighed with disappointment. “I’ve always been fascinated by stories about the Maid. I’ve even visited Donremy. She led the king’s army when she was nineteen, did she not?”

The girl shook her head deliberately. “Seventeen. She was Fountain-blessed.” The last words were uttered like a prayer. Only the rarest of individuals could access the enormous power of the Fountain. They were each gifted in a different miraculous way, though the magic was not simply lavished on them—they had to develop unique habits to feed their power. Ankarette herself was Fountain-blessed, though only a few knew it.

The little girl looked hesitant. “I could show you . . . I could show you to the duke’s room. If you would like.”

“Is he not at the fête then? Are prisoners not allowed?”

The girl shook her head dramatically. “No, they are allowed. But he hates them,” she whispered. “I can show you where the king keeps him. He is allowed visitors, but no one sees him anymore.”

Could Ankarette’s quest to discover what had become of the Maid’s famous sword be resolved so easily?

“Thank you, yes!” Ankarette said with a kindly smile. The waif led her through the mazelike corridors of the palace, and the poisoner kept pace as she memorized all the twists and turns. The din of the party fell away behind them, and soon the only the sounds were their steps and the hissing of torches. Occasionally they encountered other drudges, roused from their beds to prepare to scrub the ballroom clean before dawn.

They paused at the threshold of an ancient door with ornate iron hinges. “This is the one,” the girl said, pointing. Then she clung to the bucket handle with both hands. “The duke is kept up there.”

“There are no guards?” Ankarette asked, wrinkling her brow.

The girl shook her head. “He’s old, my lady. The king wishes him to pass away in comfort. None of the palace guards would ever let him leave.”

Ankarette nodded and then squeezed her shoulder. “Thank you. I’ll see him in the morning.”

The girl did a brief curtsy and then carried her bucket away. Ankarette stood by the imposing door, taking a steadying breath as she stared at the nicks and gouges in the wood.

Did she dare wake him? If King Lewis or one of his many poisoners caught her, she would be executed, but not before they attempted to extract secrets from her. Of course, she carried a quick-acting poison in a ring to prevent that from happening.

This was her chance to speak with the old duke uninterrupted. She trusted her instincts, honed from years of duplicity and cunning. If she met the Duke of La Marche, she would discern whether he was a risk to her or not. The Espion had reliable reports that his role in several attempted insurrections against the Spider King and his predecessor would have earned him a traitor’s death if not for his reputation among the people. If he did end up being a threat to her, she could dose him with a poisonous powder that would render him unconscious and wipe his memory clear of her. She could use another powder to get information from him even if he was unwilling to cooperate, but that was not her first choice. Either way, she needed answers; it alarmed her that King Lewis was celebrating in his palace while her king’s army was camped near a major river in Pree. Neither king was a fool. It was like a Wizr board with the opposing pieces arranged such that it was near impossible to predict the outcome of the next move.

Reaching for the handle, she found it locked. That obstacle was overcome in a moment, and she found herself facing a black stairwell. She quietly shut the door behind her and waited there, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. There were arrow slits in the tower that let in faint starlight. Keeping her back to the wall, she slowly and silently made her way up the steps, her senses alert once again for any sound that would betray a guard.

There was a door at the top of the stairs, and a faint light emanated from beneath it. Many people slept with a candle lit, but Ankarette assumed nothing and took nothing for granted. She tried the handle and found that it opened to the touch. Prodding it with the toe of her shoe, she pushed it ajar and smelled the wax of burning candles, the leftover gravy of a partially eaten meal, and the smell of an aging man.

The Duke of La Marche was awake.

From the thin crack in the door, she saw him sitting at the window. There were only a few streaks of buttery color left in his mostly white hair. Although there was a book in his hands, he was staring out the window at the night sky, lost in thought.

Ankarette had spent many a long evening in such a pose—sitting by a window, reading books of tales from the past. This was a man who had been convicted of treason twice, only for the sentence to be commuted—both times—because he was a prince of the blood. He had lived history, and she was a bit in awe of him.

After taking a moment to gather her courage, Ankarette pushed open the door gently and then shut it behind her.

The movement caught his sharp instincts, and he was out of the window seat in a moment—book down, dagger in hand. He had the stance of a soldier. Even though he was older, he’d not let his body go to waste. So much for the old and feeble man the waif had implied she’d find.

Then his posture changed. He stared at her, his blue eyes narrowing with scrutiny. “Oh, it’s you,” he said with a gravelly voice.

That took Ankarette off her guard. “Were you expecting someone?” she asked, standing by the door, preparing to flee. She did not want to fight this man. She did not want to hurt him. Her heart had the deepest reverence for people who fought with conviction and honor.

“Of course I was!” he said with a bark and a laugh. “She told me years ago you’d come. ‘Gentle duke,’ she said.” A tingle ran down Ankarette’s spine. The Maid. His voice suddenly caught with emotion. “ ‘One night, when you are very old and a prisoner in the palace, you will meet a woman who is a poisoner. She will not come to kill you. She will come to listen to your story. You must tell her your story, gentle duke. And you must teach her about me.’ ” He stared down at the knife in his hand, turning it over once before he set it down on the window seat.

Ankarette felt a throb in her heart, followed by a sudden dizziness, and then she heard it. The gentle murmuring of the Fountain. It was so subtle that even the Fountain-blessed sometimes didn’t notice its influence. But Ankarette had trained herself to listen for it, to be guided by it. And she realized it had guided her to this very tower, this very night.

Her magic told her that she could trust this man. He was a traitor to his king, but only because he served a higher cause. He served the Fountain.

All of her thoughts and plans and schemes melted away. She walked up to the grizzled duke and dropped down onto one knee in reverent respect. She looked up at him. “You are Alensson, Duke of La Marche? Your father was duke before you, and his father duke before him. Your mother is Marie of Brythonica?”

The duke looked down at her. “Get up, get up! None of that, girl. I’m the duke of nothing.” He chuckled sardonically, his expression darkening. “La Marche has been in the hands of Ceredigion since the Battle of Azinkeep. They call it . . . they call it Westmarch! Ugh. I do not like that tongue. You speak ours well enough, girl. I’m impressed. Come on, I said get up!”

Ankarette rose, almost too amazed to speak. “The Maid . . . she told you I was coming?” Her heart skipped faster at the thought.

The duke nodded sagely, folding his arms. Then he stepped back and seated himself on the window seat once again. “She did, lass. That was nearly forty years ago. Before she was captured. Before she was killed.” His eyes turned hard as flint as he spoke the words. Even after so many years, the wound pained him. She could see it in his flesh, his cheeks.

“And I know why you’re here,” the duke said softly. “You’re looking for her sword. The one drawn from the fountain at St. Kathryn of Firebos.”

Ankarette’s heart quickened at the revelation. “Yes. I was sent by my king to find it. Or to stop Lewis from using it against him.”

The duke laughed—a brittle, gritty laugh. “Lewis doesn’t have it,” he said contemptuously. “And neither did his father. The one who betrayed her.” Anger smoldered in his eyes. “Neither do I.”

Ankarette was disappointed, but she had come too far to quit so easily. “Do you know where it is? The legends say it is King Andrew’s sword. Whoever wields it will rule all the kingdoms.”

The duke’s eyes narrowed. “And that is what your king desires? Even more power?” He shook his head disdainfully. “That is all men ever want. There is no slaking the thirst of ambition. Don’t I know. Don’t I know.” He hung his head sorrowfully. Then he clapped his hands on his knees. “What is your name, lass?”

“Ankarette Tryneowy,” the poisoner answered without hesitation.

“Before we speak of the sword, Ankarette, we must first speak of her. Everyone calls her the Maid. But she had a name. She was a girl, like you. A peasant child from the village Donremy. She told me you would come, aye, and she commanded me in the name of the Fountain to tell you her story before I died.” He leaned forward, resting his chin on his fist. “Sit down, Ankarette Tryneowy. Make yourself comfortable. It is a long story. But we have all night.” He leaned forward. “To understand her, you must understand why the Fountain chose her. You see, the Fountain stopped protecting Occitania because we were unfaithful to it. When I was a young cub, my father died during the Battle of Azinkeep. You know of it, of course. My father sent a knight, Boquette, to safeguard me and my mother away from La Marche. Boquette trained me in war. He taught me about honor and Virtus, and all the things a father should. He believed the Fountain would choose me to save our people. And so I came to believe it too.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

Vernay

 

Wars were not decided by battlefield tactics and the valor of half-drunken terrified soldiers. They were decided by trickery and deceit. It was an audacious plan. And Alensson was convinced it would work.

“There’s the city,” Boquette said under his breath, his voice husky with nerves. There was a slick feeling of fear in the air, but it was tempered by the thrill of the bet, the toss of the dice, the feeling of fortune hanging in the balance. “Have you been to Vernay, lad?”

Alensson bristled at the disparagement of his youth. He was fifteen years old, newly married to his best friend, a peer of the realm who was his own age, and he was wearing armor and riding a warhorse into battle. His mother and his wife’s uncle had persuaded the prince to sanction his match to the heiress of the duchy of Lionn after Alensson’s wardship to her uncle had proved more than amicable. Surely he wasn’t a lad any longer, yet his father’s old bodyguard still treated him like one.

“Aye, when I was a boy,” he answered brusquely, letting the defensiveness show in his tone.

“You’ve never been bloodied in battle,” Boquette said with a grunt. “You’re a whelp.”

“I’ve done nothing but train in war since my father died at Azinkeep,” Alensson said between his teeth. “You’ve seen to that. There’s not a man within a hundred leagues who can beat me with a sword—yourself included, Boquette.”

Boquette chuckled to himself before replying, “A training yard is one thing, son. A very different thing.”

“I will take back my duchy, town by town, castle by castle,” Alensson said passionately. “We start in Vernay. Then we conquer Averanche. Then drive Deford out of Tatton Hall and send him back to Kingfountain with his tail cut off!”

“I like your energy, lad. But don’t count coins until they’re in your purse. Deford is lord protector. You’re not just facing another duke, a man of your own rank. You’re facing a man who can bring the might of the army of Ceredigion down on us.”

“Let him then,” Alensson sneered. “We won’t be defeated like my father was. The Ceredigic king died of dysentery and left a newborn to inherit two crowns. Let’s wrest one of them back before the brat gets his teeth.”

Boquette chuckled sardonically again. “It wasn’t dysentery, lad. A poisoner got to him.” His scar looked white and puckered through the thicket of his unshaven whiskers.

“You think so?” Alensson hated the slight quaver in his voice.

Boquette nodded sagely. “I heard some men whispering about it over their cups. Deford is not the same man as his brother. He wasn’t even at Azinkeep. This is our chance. If this ruse works, we’ll take Vernay without a fight and have a means to support ourselves.” He sighed. “But if it fails, you may get a chance yet to show off your, ahem, skills.”

From their vantage point, disguised as guards and riding chargers, the situation looked strange and otherworldly. Their ruse was simple. Fifty men wearing the kilts and badges of Atabyrion were seated backward on their horses, their arms tied behind their backs, the customary position for defeated foes being marched as hostages after a battle. The dozen horsemen leading the prisoners wore hastily sewn uniforms bearing the badge of Deford, three white scallops on a field of black. Some peasant girls had sewn the liveries for them, and while they wouldn’t withstand close scrutiny, they were convincing from atop a city wall. The Atabyrions’ language was the closest to Ceredigion’s, and the soldiers had been handpicked to be their spokesmen.

A horn sounded in the distance from the city of Vernay, sending a prickle of gooseflesh down Alensson’s back. He loosened his sword in its scabbard. If the city guards didn’t fall for the deception, then Alensson’s troops would be hit with a hail of arrows from archers on the walls. Riders would chase down all who survived.

“I hope this works,” Boquette grumbled.

“It will,” Alensson said under his breath. “Now lift your head like you’re a proud warrior of Ceredigion.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I’ve waited nine years for this,” Alensson said. He changed his posture and bearing, throwing his shoulders back. Even though he was fifteen, he was fit and had often passed for a much older man. His thoughts wandered momentarily to the tearful kiss his young wife had given him before he left her three days earlier. It was her family’s fortunes that were sustaining him, since his own lands had been settled on Deford, the new duke of Westmarch. The thought of the new title made him boil with anger. These were Alensson’s lands! This was his city! He was confident he’d take Vernay and Averanche. Then he would set up his bride, Jianne, in the castle there while he fought for the rest of his lands.

Alensson had started in the training yard as a lad of eight. He’d been bludgeoned with wooden swords until he was ten. His nose had been broken once and his knuckles and fingers had been hammered mercilessly until he’d wept from pain. But the pain had never made him quit, for it was never as keen as the shame he’d felt over the loss of his land and title. Some even said Alensson’s relentless determination to master the arts of war was an early sign the lad was Fountain-blessed. He’d never actually heard the whispers of the Fountain, but he religiously tossed coins into the chapel fountains wherever he went and listened to the lapping of the waters, seeking a sign that he had finally been chosen. These actions did nothing to discourage the rumors. And why would he want to discourage them? He hoped it would happen to him. Besides, building a reputation took time and success. Vernay would be his first.

Be careful, my love. Be very careful.

He could see her dark hair in his mind, hair that was naturally wavy and long. Her eyes were the color of cinnamon. She was worried about him, but Alensson was confident his plan would work.

As the ‘prisoners’ arrived outside the main gates of Vernay, the horses grew restless. The bound men were all holding the loose ends of their ropes in their clenched fists. They each had weapons concealed and ready to use. Their armor and faces were deliberately smeared with mud to give the impression they’d recently been in a battle. Their countenances were angry and sullen.

“Oy!” shouted his captain of the guard to the soldiers assembled atop the battlement. His cry rang out in the air. Many of the soldiers atop the wall wore the livery of Ceredigion. These were Deford’s men. But most wore the colors of Occitania. This was a local garrison, provided by the Count of De Paul.

“Who are you?” shouted the officer atop the wall. “I don’t recognize you!”

“It’s me, Sir Sallust, you idiot!” the soldier said in a patronizing tone. They had chosen to impersonate him because of the man’s widespread reputation for cruelty. Sallust balked at the merest hint of defiance or disobedience, so they were less likely to question him. “Deford crushed these Atabyrion knaves in a battle yesterday. He ordered me to hold them here while he chases down the men who fled the field like cowards. Open the bloody gate!”

A cheer went up from the soldiers on the wall and Alensson licked his lips. He trembled with anticipation, anxious for the matter to be ended. Movement along the wall was followed by the groans of timber, and the gate began to swing open to permit the hostages to be brought inside. Giddy triumph swelled in his breast. It was working, by the Fountain!

As the gate lumbered open, Alensson kicked his steed’s flanks to get it moving and nodded for Boquette to join him as they rode forward. The garrison cheered them on as they entered, taunting the Atabyrion prisoners with contempt and rude remarks.

“When?” Boquette hissed under his breath.

“Hold,” Alensson muttered back, holding up his hand and waving to the garrison soldiers as they came in. Someone thrust a bladder of wine up at him to celebrate, but he ignored the outstretched arm. He turned in his saddle, watching the horses come in. He outnumbered the garrison considerably. The cheers of victory would melt in their throats.

He rode up to the Atabyrion man pretending to be Sir Sallust, who was turned backward in the saddle, waving in the prisoners and jeering at them as they rode past. The chain hood helped conceal his face from the bystanders. The fellow had the best accent of them all. Alensson hadn’t trusted his own abilities to mimic the brogue.

“When was battle, Sir Sallust?” the garrison captain said, walking up to the Atabyrion with a pleased look. “How many fell? We had no word there was an army even close to Averanche. Was it a surprise attack?”

“Oh, it was a surprise attack,” the Atabyrion responded with a chuckle.

As soon as the young duke saw the last of the soldiers enter the city, he swung off the saddle in a practiced, easy move, and the garrison captain looked at him askance, his brow suddenly furrowed, as if he knew he should recognize Alensson’s face but could not quite recall it.

“It was a short battle,” Alensson said. “Because it was unexpected.”

“You’re Occitanian!” the garrison captain said in shock.

“It’s the duke!” someone blurted.

“That’s not Deford!” someone else countered.

“No, it’s La Marche!”

Alensson drew his sword and bowed graciously to the garrison captain. “Good morning, Captain,” he said. “The rightful duke has returned to Vernay. This is my city. Be so good as to surrender it back to me.”

First, the sound of ropes sloughing off, then, complete pandemonium as the Atabyrion prisoners jumped off their horses with weapons in hand, ready to completely overcome the guards within the city.

The garrison captain was brave. Foolish, but brave. Alensson could have run the captain through before the man’s sword was clear of its scabbard, but his training in Virtus would not permit him to kill a defenseless man who wanted to fight him. The two men crossed blades. The garrison captain was easily double Alensson’s age, with a receding hairline and a few flecks of gray in his otherwise blond goatee. His eyes were wide with horror—he’d handed his garrison over to the enemy because of a trick, and Deford would doubtless be furious and vengeful.

Alensson parried the captain’s panic-impaired attempts to kill him, then kicked him hard in the stomach and knocked him down on his back. The fight was over in seconds, Alensson standing above him with the sword pointed at his chest.

“Yield,” Alensson said.

“I surrender,” the captain gasped, for his sword had fallen out of his hand and was well beyond his reach. His face was white with terror. “Are you even a knight yet?” the captain said as he cowered.

“Not yet,” Alensson answered brusquely. “Will someone ransom you?”

“My father will ransom me,” the captain said in a quavering voice. “Sir Giles of Beestone castle.”

“Then I accept your surrender and your ransom,” Alensson answered. He lowered his sword and then extended his hand to help the captain to his feet. The Atabyrions had overcome the Ceredigion guards and were now stripping away the badges of Westmarch they had worn on their tunics. The derision they had faced upon entering the gates was now turned back on the guardsmen. The men had gone from being oppressors to prisoners in one fell swoop.

Alensson could not help but smile in pleasure. Not a single man had fallen. He gripped his sword hilt, savoring the joy of his triumph.

“I’ll send word to my father at once,” said the garrison captain. His tone was changing now that his life was no longer in jeopardy. Then a hard edge came to it. “But you won’t be holding this city for long, boy. The duke is at Averanche with six thousand men.”

Alensson turned and scowled. His blood boiled with fury. “I am the duke!” he roared.