The Maid's War(70)
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The Deconeus of Ely
The carriage wheels struck an overlarge stone, giving the cart a ferocious shake that nearly sent Ankarette and Alensson crashing into each other. The poisoner stared at the duke in surprise and wonderment.
“The lad’s name was Tunmore? John Tunmore?” she asked, her insides seething with the new information.
The duke gave her a wizened smile. “I take it that you know the august Deconeus of Ely?”
Ankarette’s mind was whirling. “He is my . . . my mentor,” she said, shaking her head. “He is scrupulously strict about keeping his secret. Only the king and queen know he is Fountain-blessed. And myself,” she added wryly. “He is the one who taught me to use the Fountain magic. You say he was just a boy at the time?” She laughed to herself. “I cannot even imagine him so young.”
“And surely I am as old as the mountains!” Alensson said with a gruff laugh, folding his arms. The carriage had settled back to its normal pattern again. “Yes, the lad was Fountain-blessed. The corruption of court taints everyone it touches, so I do not know how he is today, but he was a serious boy. A sober child. He supported King Eredur’s rival originally, did he not?”
“Yes, he did,” Ankarette said. “During the story you have been telling me, Deford was named protector of the child-king of Ceredigion. He was the lad’s uncle—”
“Uncles and nephews,” the duke murmured. When Ankarette gave him a quizzical look, he motioned for her to continue.
“The boy was already the King of Ceredigion. Deford was planning to bring him to Occitania to see him crowned king of this country as well. But Chatriyon, as you said, was crowned at Ranz instead. Deford had his nephew crowned at Pree, defying tradition. But this was several months after Genette’s death, and it caused a lot of political upheaval in my kingdom. The Maid’s impact on Ceredigion did not end with her capture. Tunmore was young back then. I hadn’t even thought to consider that he was alive, let alone a participant!”
Alensson nodded his head and wagged his eyebrows. “Of course you didn’t. No one did. He was the one who smuggled the scabbard into the palace.” He sighed. “It’s still there, for all I know.”
Ankarette leaned forward, her eyes riveted on his face. “Still?”
He stretched out his long legs. “I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but the story is coming to an end. Genette’s story, that is.” A mask of pain and sadness wrinkled his brow and his eyes. “This boy was being trained as a novice at Our Lady. His life had been dedicated to the faith at a young age, but rather than resent it, he embraced it—both because of the opportunities and because he could actually hear the Fountain’s whispers. Imagine what it was like for him, being so young and attached to the grandest sanctuary in his realm. All the while the Fountain whispered to him that the Maid of Donremy, whom everyone hated, was actually a true messenger of the Fountain. He did not tell anyone what he knew.” He shook his head and laughed softly. “Think of that! I’ve always regretted that I never thanked him for his help. He’s come to Pree on occasion in a diplomatic role, but I was never permitted to see him. He’s very good at keeping secrets.”
“He is,” Ankarette said in awe, amazed that her mentor had never told her any of this.
Tunmore had recognized her gifts when she was dabbling with the magic as a young lady-in-waiting to the Duke of Warrewik’s eldest daughter. He had sensed her using it to discern the intentions of one of the duke’s royal visitors, for the Fountain-blessed could always sense the magic another Fountain-blessed was using if they paid attention. Some who possessed the power were never schooled in its use and didn’t learn how it was depleted and replenished. Tunmore had given her lessons in the use of her power, and it was he who had recommended that she be sent to Pisan for training as a poisoner.
She noticed that Alensson was studying her face, keenly interested, and she felt a little flush creep into her cheeks. “I’m sorry. Go on with your story.”
“We’re both exhausted, Ankarette. It’s been a long night, a long journey. Perhaps we could rest for a while?”
“You must tell me what you know,” she said, shaking her head. “We’ll leave this wagon at Ranz and then take horses toward Westmarch.” She saw him flinch. “I mean, La Marche. Now that I know so much about your history, I have ill feelings toward Lord Kiskaddon, who is the Duke of Westmarch now. You never won your duchy back. That must have grieved you.”