In the chapel, he abruptly heard m’Lady’s voice and fought the immediate need to stand, even as he slipped Lela back into Phoebe’s arms. He didn’t really understand it, but experience had taught him that the Countess was probably the only person in this world – other than the Commander – that made him instinctively reach for his sword. He looked down the length of the Sainte Chapelle. She was icily beautiful, even at this distance, with her long chestnut brown hair, plaited and pearled in an extravagant style replete with light Brionde blue ribbons to match the slightly darker Anjou blue shade of her velvet gown and slippers. Her sleeves just barely wafted above the floor as she stood, moved to the Prince, and curtseyed a very low, graceful bow that sparked a subdued whispering of exclamations around the hall. Even Phoebe gasped with delight.
One hand reached back pointing with a graceful finger to Katya, who stood and stepped forward.
“As you see my Lord, your Majesty,” her voice rang through the hall, proudly, defiantly.
“A daughter!” the Duke of Normandy sneered in response.
The Master of her Guard – the same one that had beaten Tristen nearly to death before tossing him to the winter wolves – stood, his hand reaching for his rapier. A rapier that was absent, as only the Lord Constable, du Guesclin, had leave to be armed in the presence of the Dauphine. m’Lady was already subduing, however, this large, muscular man with a glance. Tristen was again tickled to see how much older this man who had honestly terrified him as a child appeared to be. He was practically ancient these days, his brown beard streaked heavily with gray. Not for the first time since meeting him last night, at Phoebe’s insistence and only in m’Lady’s presence, did Tristen think that the Master was lucky he had been absent during the sack of Brionde. Otherwise, he would not be here to stand at his mistress’ side.
The Duke had noticed her glance as well. “Very impressive, Countess. Does he shit upon your command, too?” (Tristen found himself wondering the same thing.)
It had been a very odd, disjointed conversation. Later, meeting the Commander for night ales, he had wanted to mention it, but hadn’t known how to begin, so he had left it.
It had been the first time he had seen m’Lady since the sack. He knew that he would always treat her with a deference he allowed few others. He knew that it had something to do with the way that she favored Phoebe. He also knew that he still didn’t understand the pumping of his heart whenever he laid eyes upon the infant Emma, and not because Katya was nursing her. Last, he also knew that the previous evening, during Phoebe’s renewal of introductions, m’Lady had followed his uneasy glance to her daughter, while he felt the wound in his chest above his heart start to seize up.
About the only thing odder was m’Lady’s parting remark, gracefully, yet firmly given without a hint of mockery. Gesturing with a nod toward the Master, she had said, “Be sure to extend my greetings to John’s old friend the Lord Constable.”
Tristen had choked out some sort of reply, then left.
Back in the chapel, m’Lady was now speaking. “Indeed, your royal Majesty. A daughter. I am reliably informed by a Franciscan Brother who makes his home at Chateau Brionde that I was robbed of that particular treasure through the curse of one of the Sisters of Endor.”
The hall broke out into excited whispers and hushed cries of alarm.
“A witch,” m’Lady was continuing, her voice darkening. “She has been dealt with.”
It couldn’t be, thought Tristen. He wasn’t certain to hope so, or not. Phoebe, he noticed, was blushing, furiously.
The murmurs around the hall began to grow louder until the Duke cut them off with a wave of his bejeweled hand.
“Even so! A daughter is no Count of Brionde-Anjou as his Majesty, Charles the Wise, has so helpfully pointed out.”
Tristen craned his head to try and pick out the sovereign. It was for naught. He had only seen the Prince a few times, at Palais functions. In any case, the seated Court in the apse of the chapel, in front of the altar, was a sea of fine clothing and jewels blocked from sight by the large number of gowned attendants that seemed to follow the Duke everywhere.
“My Lord, the Duke,” m’Lady was continuing, but he shushed her.
“Enough! Most gracious and wise Majesty, I petition the Court. The Countess has dallied with matters of state long enough. The Countess has delayed your most auspicious plans for the security of this realm for far too long. My beloved Antonia, having passed into the hands of angels upon the birth of our son Robert, I demand the hand of the Countess of Brionde-Anjou in marriage.”
The hall went silent. As silent as a tomb, Tristen thought, intrigued.
The Duke spoke, his voice ringing, “You know my worth, your royal Majesty. You know my allegiance.”
There was a ripple of movement near the front of the altar. Tristen could barely make it out. Or, perhaps, he could because of the reactions of those seated along the walls closer to the front. Either way, he heard a thin, reedy voice declare, “It shall be so.”
The Duke bowed, low. Then he straightened, looking toward m’Lady. Even at this distance, Tristen could make out the lust disfiguring the noble’s features. Might as well start drooling, my Lord, he thought.
“Well, my Lady, shall we make our wedding arrangements? Time is pressing. Edward III, nor his son the Black Prince of Wales, waits for neither tide nor wind.”
Tristen chuffed at that. If the English were coming again, the Commander would be the first to know. And he would be the second, if only because the Commander would have sent him with an interception force straight to the coast.
m’Lady, however, betrayed nothing. She waited.
Only to slowly turn.
To turn and look all the way down the length of the Sainte Chapelle, wonder of their age, past all the seneschals, servants, attendants standing near the front and all the spectators watching from their benches along the walls.
To turn and look straight into his eyes.
He was on his feet in an instant, his hand reaching for the sword that was not there.
She turned back to the Duke and with a voice loud enough to echo from the stars in the ceiling, smiled, “You are a man, my Lord. Take me.”
Then her head held high, she spun on a heel and, followed by the Master and their pitifully few three Guardsmen, strode the length of the chapel to leave.
Just as they passed him, as he stepped out to join their ranks, Tristen spotted the Commander, standing by the altar, his fingers beating a tattoo on his sword hilt.
*****
The calm that followed was eerie. For, they did not come that night, as Tristen had expected. Nor the next night. Nor the next. Nor the several days following. Of the Duke there was no word. Of the Chateaus Brionde and Anjou, there was no word. Most worrying for Tristen was the lack of news from the Commander.
He honestly felt torn by this later development. He had never served two masters before. He had just jumped in when m’Lady had called because of Phoebe. And, that small voice in his head suggested, little Lela. He could not stand to see them hurt. So what help his broadsword could bring to a set of chambers staffed with rapiers, he would see. He was patient. He had learned to be.
Nevertheless, it was with a sinking heart that he saw the three Guardsmen began to lose their edge as the initial hours of excitement passed into the first full day of inactivity. Followed by the other days of...waiting. Food, water were not a problem he was pleased to see. Clearly somebody – either m’Lady or Phoebe – he never did discover, had learned from the sack. The Brionde-Anjou chambers were well stocked with provisions that could last several weeks. Chamber pots? Well, that’s what windows were for.
The most worrying concern, one that clearly began to gnaw at m’Lady, was the lack of news of the chateaus. The Master – and much as Tristen disliked him, he could see the man’s skill at a glance – reassured continually that Louis and Roel, whoever that was, would hold the two chateaus well. When it came to that, Tristen knew bet
ter than to ask why they had brought only three Guardsmen. That was Palais custom – six Guard per noble and no more. The official explanation was the lack of local resources. du Guesclin, however, was quite strict about it, for he wished no trouble from some foolhardy coup d’etat mounted on a drunken whim some night. And because the Master was regarded the land over as easily worth a handful of men, Tristen supposed that the Commander had held Brionde-Anjou to their Master plus three.
No, the problem was a sharp blade growing dull from inactivity. He needed only a few hours around the Guardsmen to know that they were not top notch. He had certainly killed better during the sack. The Master either did not truly expect any trouble during their visit or, more probably, believed any trouble would occur at the chateaus while they were here at the Palais. As such, he prudently, Tristen ruefully admitted, left the best of the Guard at home. Regardless, as the days stretched onward, the lack of ale, mead or spirits of any kind other than watered-down wine, at the Master’s command, began to take their toll.
Thus, when Phoebe asked him for any ideas of a diversion, he suggested Le Troupe Sauvage. They were itinerant performers. He knew them all quite well, having first met them down at the edges of Navarre when the band was campaigning there. In fact, he was the one who suggested they come north someday to the Palais when they got tired of the summer heat. And they had. Dressed in their flax costumes, created in Aix, to appear like apes (they used resin to attach the flax), they gave a spirited performance of a bunch of wild apes hooting and hollering, jumping on furniture, peeking under ladies skirts, or pretending to. Many a dull evening had its boredom dispelled in the Palais when Le Troupe Sauvage played out their antics before a drunken crowd.
m’Lady liked the idea. The Master subjected Tristen to a tediously long interrogation about the troupe and its players. How long had he known them, where had they performed, who were their sponsors, who was the lead player, what were their costumes made of, how tightly-fitting, could they hide weapons under them, would they agree to a search, and sundry other topics. All of which Tristen responded to with increasingly shorter and hotter-tempered answers – “linen smocks soaked in a gummy resin so the flax can be attached to them, Saint Denis!” – much to m’Lady’s growing amusement, he found to his exasperation. Phoebe was a help, smoothing out the harder edges between the two, though Tristen wasn’t certain that he wanted her to. At least for a couple moments.
He could never forgive the Master for what he had done. Laying awake long into the night before the troupe was to arrive, he was genuinely surprised to learn that he was not angry with the Master for beating him and throwing him out the back of the chateau. Tristen had seen far too many years of casual brutality to resent that. No. What angered him is that in doing so – for the price of a blowjob, Saint Denis – the Master had deprived Twig of a protector in that hell of a kitchen. Deep in his heart, Tristen knew that he would never forgive the Master. Indeed, he thought he might well kill the aged warrior one day for the offense.
He was looking forward to the troupe. That damn baby Emma was making him restless. Lela, he had grown inured to. She might be of his stock, but Phoebe had made it abundantly clear that Louis would never know. Besides, she had answered all of his feverish questions about just how well, or not, the boy was treating her. Well, was the answer. He had to accept that. He knew that she would never lie to him about that. If the boy ever raised a hand to her, he would die horribly. That was Tristen’s vow of acceptance as to the situation, at least to himself.
No, Emma might well be the daughter of a Count, but in the world of nobility, that made her little more than baggage. Soon, all too soon, in the next few days, she might well be married off to some octogenarian goat as part of the stalemate that Tristen already saw the Commander negotiating with the Duke. In his mind. That made her, essentially, an orphan.
He woke that morning to the realization of a troubled dream in which he had asked m’Lady if he could escort the baby – and not because of Katya, either – to her new home. Maybe stay on as her protector.
As he sipped some water and chewed on a stale roll for breakfast, the thought which had made him feel mawkish and stupid began to make more sense as the cold light of day took hold. He even wondered if that was what Phoebe had been working up to, in asking for his help. It would be hard leaving the Commander, though. He groaned. Still, at least he would be able to see her from time to time. Maybe she would even bring little Lela by for a visit of some weeks, wherever they wound up. Married to Orleans? No, probably Burgundy. du Guesclin was always saying that Burgundy was endlessly ambitious to pick up more lands.
The day passed quickly. There was little of a perimeter to patrol. There was even less room in which to practice, though the Master certainly worked his hardest, ordering them to clear the bed each morning from m’Lady’s night chamber, the largest room, then replace it late each night. The ladies watched as he drilled them again and again. Lightly, for he had no wish to exhaust them should the attack come that night.
For the first days, out of sheer mulishness, Tristen had refused to exchange his broadsword for a rapier to fight in the Brionde style. Why not? He had dispatched many a Brionde Guardsmen to an untimely death with his broadsword. But then, Phoebe had coaxed him late one night. Lying next to him in the old way, Lela balanced on his chest, she had patiently explained that it would perk up the esprit de corps of the remaining Guardsmen to know that “such an illustrious duelist as the marvelous Sir Tristen” (he had growled at her at that point, making her giggle) would fight in their style. The next day, without fanfare, he had shown up with a rapier for practice. The Master had said nothing. The practice had gone on.
As the afternoon passed into evening, the torches being lit as the day’s light faded, a certain tension began to take hold. Tristen understood it, though he thought it silly. They were nervous because a group of unfamiliars was about to enter the chambers, a rare occurrence since m’Lady had laid down her challenge. He himself had felt that same distrust the first few days, until Phoebe had poured oil over the troubled seas. But the troupe was well known. Phoebe had seen them perform once, taking Katya and the babies. So had the three Guardsmen, numerous times.
For his part, Tristen was looking forward to a little tete a tete with Lamar, the troupe leader. That man could drink like few others Tristen had known, save Gaspard. Though thinking of his old friend, he hastily tucked that thought away. What he wanted instead was some good old fashioned Palais gossip. Who was doing whom? What the hell was the Commander up to? And while he didn’t expect Lamar to help with secrets of the Duke’s plans, he thought he could get something, indirectly, out of their conversation. He was only sorry that he couldn’t offer anything better than cheap wine.
Dinner was the usual spare affair. Some badly done coney and morning-baked bread brought in by servants who were so thoroughly searched for weapons that, as usual, the entree dishes were cool to the taste, already collecting puddles of congealing fat on the surface of the sauce. Tristen always smiled at this, at the grumbling of the Guardsmen, for cold fatty rabbit each night was far better than he had eaten most of the last years.
At last the standard heavy knock of Le Troupe Sauvage was heard on the door of the chambers. Discussing it with the Master, m’Lady and Phoebe acting as referees, the two warriors had come to the uneasy agreement of not spoiling the rowdy and bawdy entrance for which the troupe was famed only because the Master and Tristen would flank the entrance archway, looking out for anything amiss.
Phoebe eagerly ran to the wooden door and called out the traditional greeting by which the troupe loved to be greeted, “Qui vient si tard?”
Who comes so late? She was answered by the hoots and hollers of a menagerie of apes pounding on the door. Her smile turning brightly pink, she quickly turned the latch and pulled back. Tristen could see the muscles in the Master’s throat tense, just as his entire body went slack. Impressed in spite of himself, Tristen found himself slipping automaticall
y into battle mode.
Unnecessarily.
The door exploded open with a bang, Phoebe falling back into Tristen’s arms as the performers bellowed out guttural yells at the top of their lungs. They lunged into the chambers, the Master slamming the door shut just as Tristen noticed, peering through the lavender drenched locks of Twig’s sweetly beautiful hair that something was wrong. He threw one look at the Master, who then coolly grabbed a torch and touched it to the nearest ape. The costume roared up in flames so quickly the performer did not notice.
What Tristen did notice was the door being thrown open again.
And that is when Hell began.
Tristen heard the cry of war trumpets pounding his ears, heard the screech of a valkyrie swooping down out of the sky, felt the lust of battle lifting his downtrodden spirits, blasting all of the lethargy of the past days out of his system with one shriek. The game was on, and he was in it!
He threw Phoebe bodily off of him and into the corner behind him. Spinning back, he caught the glimpse of several of the troupe performers gyrating in a crazily frenetic dance, waving their arms frantically, bumping into each other, throwing each other off one another, helplessly setting themselves all on fire.
So that’s what all the screaming was about, he thought, as he drew and sliced right through the neck of a man-at-arms charging to a stop at the appalling sight of a human inferno dead ahead of him in the chambers. Falling down, the soldier tripped the next one through the door. Or maybe he had tripped over the one that the Master had skewered a mere heartbeat before. In any case, there were two more racing through the door to confront the death ready to meet them. Tristen sensed, rather than saw the Master step in to the side, in the Brionde manner, thrusting under the man-at-arms’ armpit, killing him instantly, just as Tristen was dispatching his own with a sharp thrust to the heart. The next pair through the door sensed what was happening and tried to reverse but were being pushed from behind. The Master and Tristen parried, cut, then as the soldiers began to lose balance from those pushing at the rear, thrust into their hearts and let them fall.
Chateau of Passion Page 11