Owen steeled his courage, feeling his legs wobble with the pent-up excitement. Then he slipped through the crack in the door, gently shut it behind him, and raced toward freedom.

The populace of Ceredigion is inherently superstitious, especially in regards to quaint traditions involving the Fountain. When there is a wish or an ambition that a husband, wife, or child wants fulfilled, they hold a coin in their hand, think hard on the wish, and then flick the coin into one of the multitude of fountains within the sanctuary of Our Lady. Coins glisten and shimmer beneath the waters. They return the next day and find the coin still there. Mayhap two days. But invariably the coins vanish and that poor soul believes the Fountain has accepted their offering and will consider their wish. I know for a fact that the sexton of Our Lady dons wading boots, grabs a rake, and harvests the coins for the king’s coffers every few days. He always leaves some behind, for a partially full fountain invites more donations to the king’s treasury. It is considered the height of blasphemy to steal a coin from a fountain. It amazes me how this superstition prevents even a hungry urchin from stealing a coin that would buy his bread. The children whisper that if you take from the fountain and are caught, you will be thrown into the river and whisked over the falls. The power that tradition wields over simple minds is truly amazing. Whenever some poor fool shows a natural talent, be it baking or growing flowers, how quick people are to announce that person as blessed.

—Dominic Mancini, Espion of Our Lady of Kingfountain

CHAPTER EIGHT

Her Majesty

Owen was breathing hard by the time he left the woods and started down the road. Sweat slicked his hair to his forehead, and he joined the carts and wagons and torrent of folk marching along toward the bridge. He worried that he would be spotted by the guards and seized at the gate, so he searched the crowd for a group of people who looked like a family. As soon as he found one, he increased his speed and fell in step with them as they passed the gatehouse. No one paid him any notice.

After leaving the shadow of the portcullis, Owen felt his nervous heart begin to give way to a thrill of excitement. Monah was probably still searching for him, and even after she reported him missing, it would take time before anyone figured out how he had escaped. His plan was simple. Go to the princess’s mother in the sanctuary of Our Lady and beg enough coins to hire a coach to take him back to Tatton Hall. He knew of dozens of places he could hide on the grounds, without his parents’ knowledge, and he would live among them as a ghost. It was a three-day ride by horseback to Westmarch, which meant a wagon would take longer, but the thought of being back home in a week made him grin with eagerness. He would trick the king and no one would be the wiser. Not even his parents would know where he was, so it would not be their fault if Owen was missing. He was still hurt that they had chosen him to go to the palace, but he didn’t want them to get in more trouble.

As he crossed the bridge, his confidence began to wane and his stomach started to growl. He broke off a crust from his pocket and chewed it slowly to ease his hunger. Every noise made him whirl around and stare back, as if twenty knights wearing the badge of the white boar might be charging after him. Beneath him he could feel the churn of waves crashing against the bridge and hear the roar of the waterfall. He feared he would never make it, and yet the sanctuary drew closer.

It was a beautiful structure, but he had gazed at it with dull eyes when Horwath had brought him past it weeks ago. Still, he remembered all the grubby men loitering at the gates and felt a shiver of dread. The clomp of hooves startled him, and he moved to the side quickly as a rider passed. Owen felt the panicked sensation that everyone was looking at him. He refused to meet anyone’s gaze as he pressed onward.

As he walked, he took notice of the brickwork along the island wall that defended the earth from being washed away. There were patterns in the bricks he had not noticed before, perhaps because huge clumps of hanging ivy covered part of the brickwork, one batch hanging low enough to tease the waters rushing by at great speed. A fence surrounded the entire grounds of the sanctuary, which was on the north side of the island in the midst of the river. Huge trees towered up beyond the fence, and on the side facing Owen, he spied a huge circular stained-glass window in the shape of a sundial. Spikes and turrets rose from the edges, and long gutters and support struts held up the walls. It was narrow and tall and a huge steeple jutted from the crown of the structure, high enough to pierce the clouds.

Owen was so busy gazing at the structure that he stumbled against the backside of a man pushing a cart and earned a quick scolding for his carelessness.