“Uncle, it is no matter,” the girl said, touching the bent arm hooked with hers like a shepherd’s staff. “I was only offering to help look after him. It would not be a burden, truly.”
The king kept his gaze on Owen. Fear bloomed in the boy’s stomach and traveled down through his legs, which felt weak. “You are no nursemaid, Elyse,” he said softly.
“What am I then?” she asked him meaningfully. “I am not a princess either. I am a bit of fluff, blown about by the wind. Your guests are hungry, my lord.” She gave him a subtle nudge.
The king bowed graciously to her and then gestured that they had his permission to start eating. Owen slowly approached one of the trestle tables, his eyes never leaving the king and the princess. He was curious what would happen, and since Liona had given him something to eat already, he wasn’t hungry. As the young people began chatting amongst themselves, some taking slices of bread or a bit of cheese from the table, they ate nervously, anxiously. Some barely finished more than a bite or two.
What Owen noticed next surprised him. The king roamed among the guests, watching their faces as they plucked from the tables of food. He watched them chew their food, occasionally reaching out to take something from a tray that had already been touched. The king was watching the others eat before eating himself. Was that normal for a king? Surely it was his right to save all the best food for himself.
Owen’s mind seemed to roll over like a wagon wheel. He did not understand the king at all.
After a few moments, the king poured himself a cup from a pitcher of watery wine. He walked slowly through the gathering, observing his guests with cunning eyes, as if enjoying a private joke.
The king noticed Owen was staring at him and began edging his way toward him. Instinctively, Owen began to retreat, trying to keep space between them. Their eyes locked. The king’s eyes were gray with flecks of blue. His cheeks still glistened from his morning shave, and his long black hair was tidy and smooth and fell about his shoulders. He had a sharp nose, angled cheeks, and looked bemused.
Owen stepped around the trestle table, keeping it between them. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. The king was not wearing the velvet cap he’d had on the previous day, a small detail and Owen didn’t know why it stood out to him.
Severn continued his approach, almost slithering like a serpent, his fine, gleaming golden chain winking in the torchlight.
Ratcliffe approached the king’s shoulder and coughed into his fist. “My lord, a word with you?”
“What is it?” the king asked gruffly, not taking his eyes off Owen.
“How did you know the boy was missing? Did one of the Espion tell you? It was not something you needed to worry about, my lord.”
The king broke Owen’s gaze to look scornfully at Ratcliffe. “Should I have been worried about it? The castle is a maze of corridors and towers. It’s no surprise the boy was lost. What surprised me was that he wasn’t better watched after.”
Ratcliffe flushed with anger. “You would prefer for him to sleep in my chambers so that I might gaze upon him every moment of the day?”
“No, Dickon. I want you to keep your eye on the lad like I asked. I’m trusting you in this. Do not disappoint me.”
Ratcliffe frowned, nodded once, and walked away.
The king turned back to Owen, their gazes meeting once more. Owen found he could not look away. The king limped slightly as he approached the table and rested his hand on the tablecloth. “You haven’t eaten.”
Owen shook his head slowly, unable to loosen his tongue. He quaked with dread.
The king took a heel of bread and pushed it toward him. He nodded slowly to the boy and then turned to face someone else—a young man, probably twelve years old, who was talking with a hunk of bread in his mouth.
The king’s tone was sharp as he addressed the lad. “Eat it, Dunsdworth. Don’t choke on it.”
The boy went crimson with mortification. He tried to chew faster so he could clear his mouth to reply, and the exaggerated motion caused a few titters from bystanders. The king gave the young man a vicious look. Then he turned his gaze on a girl of about ten. “Good morrow, Lady Kate. Your eyes are puffy. Were you weeping already?”
“No, my lord,” the girl stammered fearfully. “My eyes were itchy, ’tis all.”
“Itchy,” the king replied with a chuckle. “It’s probably the smoke. This is a smoky hall,” he said, his eyes roaming the rafters. “Some fresh air will do you well. Try not to wheeze.”
Owen watched as the king prowled around the hall, choosing victim after victim. Age did not spare anyone from his barbed wit. His words were feints and thrusts, always sharp and always ready to draw blood. This was what Owen had to look forward to every day. To be wheedled and teased by a sarcastic king who used children as his royal food tasters.