He retreated a pace as if her words stung him. She was a little sorry, but he had asked for her help. He did not own or command her, no one did. She let the silence grow until he spoke, seemingly changing the subject.
"A fine tournament; they are saying it is the best for years. And Edouard de Chamfort will make a popular champion. The boy is well placed in the line of succession."
His mention of the succession, so soon after he had claimed ignorance, caught her attention. "Rupert de Chamfort's son," she said. "His father is a good friend."
"He should look to the company his son keeps."
Again, Mathieu surprised her. She watched him for a moment. He defied simple understanding; she believed his kindness and concern to be genuine. He seemed a simple man, but then he would turn. In a few words, his obsession revealed a darker side. She did not know what horrors he had seen. She supposed he could not have taken on such a task without a measure of dark strength.
But his words were serious, and his interest in the de Chamfort boy had implications. She set aside the niggling unease at his seeming duplicity to consider later. Stranger yet the coincidence, watching Edouard de Chamfort fight had piqued her interest.
"What do you mean?" she asked. "Rupert is a good friend." And, as Arnaud's health continued to deteriorate, a man soon to be thrust into a stew of treachery. He would have no choice, as the drama of the succession unfolded.
"The boy is the Marechal St Andre's protégé."
"What is so wrong in that?" A moment's silence. "From what I have seen, he will have a bright future with the King's army. Why wouldn't the King's first general support him?"
"Rumor has it St Andre went against the King to ensure the boy will be knighted today."
"Again, why would he not? Rumor says that Edouard earned the honor this summer, fighting bravely under St Andre's command. If he takes the championship, Edouard will be the court's new hero." She had misgivings about whether that was wise, but she did not choose to share them. It was between Rupert and his son. "He will return to Chamfort when it is done. He will soon be away from court, and St Andre's influence."
Mathieu shrugged. "Perhaps, but rumor says he is determined to stay with St Andre. Our suspicion of the Marechal grows with every report we gather. We have come close to finding a link between him and the shadow knights. They are often close to where he is, and who better to train and control a band of knights that murder and pillage and then disappear into the mist? What better cover than to travel under the King's orders?"
"It is hardly proof," she said. "And why have you not told me this before? I must know these things."
"It is an old suspicion and, as you point out, we have not found hard evidence," he admitted. "But after the summer campaign, there were a string of attacks near Etrives. St Andre was close by; if our suspicion is correct, he grows bold. And if this boy is with him the danger increases."
"Do you have any proof?"
"Not strong enough to accuse the King's first general."
If this was true… she tracked the consequences and saw a host of dangers. "This is too big to pursue blindly, Mathieu. You must act quickly and find the strongest proof before going against St Andre. Once he knows he has an enemy, the Marechal will be ruthless. He is powerful, a dangerous man to cross."
"We will find the proof."
She nodded once. "And I will find the truth about Edouard de Chamfort. I owe his father that much. Edouard is young to remain at court. I would expect him to return to his family at Chamfort now the season is done. If he does, then we have nothing to fear."
"Maybe." Mathieu hesitated for a moment. "How will you find out?"
She smiled. "It should be simple enough to discover his intentions. In the meantime, you must say nothing of this to anyone. Such a rumor could set the King against Chamfort. He lacks only the excuse." She caught his arm. "We are talking war, brother against brother. Civil war, ancient allegiances that would set the north against the south and rip Valderon apart."
"And if the boy is part of this along with St Andre, what then?"
Around her, tapestries showed scenes of battle, death and betrayal. She wondered what Hugo would have done, faced with such a choice. Duty and honor had ruled him, and loyalty too. Rupert had been a friend to them both. "It doesn't mean his father is. I will find out."
"If there is a threat, we don't have much time, my lady."
"Find proof against St Andre. Do nothing about de Chamfort. I will know the truth soon enough."
"And how will you learn it, my lady?" he asked again.
She met his stare and held it. "My methods are my business. Not yours or Jaime's."
This time, Mathieu made no reply.
####
Ferdinand returned to the royal stand as the acrobats and jugglers were leaving the lists. At either end, the horse lines and colored pavilions were busy with knights and squires. The combatants had not yet entered the lists, but in the stands, the crowds were gathered and waiting. Pennants rippled in the sea breeze. As Ferdinand settled, there was a rustle of movement. A herald called for attention.
"All rise for the Queen."
Ferdinand turned as she reached the top of the steps. He watched her come forward, wondering why she had chosen to join him now, afraid that he knew the answer. Beatrice was immaculate, from her golden hair dressed beneath an elegant headdress, to the pearls edging the hem of her dress. She moved with ease and grace; age had taken little from her and only augmented her royalty. She did not hurry to his side, instead taking time to greet those she passed. She came close to Arnaud, and he saw the way her gaze searched their son, but she moved on, too wise to show concern openly. A seat had been set ready, and she came to take her place at his side. He rose to greet her, but he did not smile. It was a warning. She knew him too well. He could guess why she had come.
"Beatrice." He waited until she was seated, and then raised his eyebrows at this unexpected break from protocol.
"Sieur Ranald has carried your standard with honor today. What should we expect of him in the final?"
He was saved from answering as trumpets announced the arrival of the combatants. He turned to the lists and watched them come forward. Ranald, tall, heavily muscled and armed with years of experience. Edouard, tall but slender, graceful against the older man's bulk, his shoulder-length dark hair tied back in the style the younger knights favored. They stood shoulder to shoulder to salute him. Ferdinand smiled approval at Ranald and ignored his nephew. Ranald bowed, fist clenched at his heart. Edouard bowed with a similar gesture, and a smile pointedly directed beyond Ferdinand's shoulder towards Arnaud.
The adjudicators called them to their places; a brief pause followed as the formalities were concluded. The crowd stilled to silence. The adjudicators stepped back. Raising his hand, Ferdinand gave the signal. In the silence, the first clash of steel rang loud. The blades arced and crossed; a flurry of strokes and then a break. There was barely a pause; the next passage ended with a heavy collision and metal screamed. Slow to recover, Ranald stepped back. His retreat looked clumsy. Edouard followed, pressing hard. A feint and a lunge, and his sword skimmed Ranald's shoulder. No touch was called. Ferdinand sat forward, his gaze locked to the fight. Behind him, he heard Arnaud's breathless cheer.
The next engagement developed. Ranald was still in retreat. The crowd was quiet, disappointed by the one-sided opening. The engagement ended with Edouard attacking; his elegant reverse cut was barely parried. Ranald stumbled. Ferdinand gripped the arms of his chair, willing the man to rally. But he was too slow; Edouard's blade scored across Ranald's breastplate. The touch was called. The engagement over, Edouard's blade lowered but his impetus carried him forward. Surprisingly, Ranald did not move aside. He stood firm and the impact brought the two men close. There was a sudden movement. Ranald raised an arm as if to ease his shoulder. Edouard staggered. One of the adjudicators gave a sharp command, and they broke apart.
Slowly, Ferdinand released his grip and sat
back. He had not caught the action, but he saw the result. A trickle of blood ran from a cut close beneath Edouard de Chamfort's left eye, the skin around it marked red. The adjudicator spoke briefly to Sieur Ranald. Called forward, the combatants faced each other, and the signal to commence was given.
The boy's eye was already swelling. Ferdinand wondered how it had been done, an elbow or fist. Mentally, he saluted Ranald and apologized for thinking him clumsy; it had been cleverly worked. The crowd had barely noticed, though there was a murmur from the knights standing in front of the pavilions. It would not have escaped the attention of the experienced men seated with the court. Beatrice glanced sharply sideways at him. He ignored her.
Ranald was attacking now. He had put aside the early stumbling defense and brought his strengths openly into play: a slight advantage of reach and a powerful one in weight and strength. He pressed forward, forcing control of the engagement with relentless, battering strokes. The boy retreated.
Edouard de Chamfort's left eye was puffed and swollen nearly closed now. He looked a little dazed. Hard pressed, he tried to hold, bracing himself to stand against this ferocious assault, grunting with the effort of parrying Ranald's heavy, relentless strokes. His skill seemed blunted by the force and speed of his opponent's attack; suddenly his inexperience showed. He appeared slight and frail against the older man's strength. Ferdinand held back a smile. Ranald was fighting superbly now, with irresistible force and well above his usual skill.
As he watched, the knight feinted left and then swung a vicious downward angled cut. Edouard's parry was a heartbeat too slow; descending, the knight's heavy sword glanced from it and scored across the leather protecting Edouard's thigh. The stands erupted to a sudden deafening cheer. The second touch was Ranald's. The adjudicators marked it and the fighters stilled. Ferdinand stared down. He saw that, slicing through the hard leather, Ranald's cut had drawn blood. The injury was not obvious, the more distant crowd would not see it, nor would it hamper the boy greatly. It was, however, a signal of intent.
He watched for the boy's response. Edouard glanced down briefly at the oozing blood; he seemed bemused. He looked to Ranald, waiting grim-faced, and then up to the royal stand. He looked for Ferdinand. It was a brief exchange, a clash of glances. The boy looked away first. Ferdinand was satisfied he understood.
As the adjudicators called them forward, Ranald raised his sword with grim confidence. The signal was given. Again the knight attacked hard. His first cut was fierce and drew a desperate parry; his blade sheered from it and skimmed close to the boy's head. The very force of his sword strokes was a danger. Again, Edouard was driven back. Against Ranald's brutal power, he could only block and retreat in desperate defense. The crowd roared approval. Ferdinand felt an instant of pleasure as an old jealousy and bitterness eased. It would be different this time. As he smiled, Beatrice leant close.
"Call your knight off, before real harm is done."
He had guessed why she had come, and had known she would ignore his warning. He did not rule Beatrice; if she allowed him the appearance, it was a conceit. "He does us proud," Ferdinand answered easily. Whatever she might guess there was nothing she, or anyone, could prove.
She shattered the lie, soft voiced, impossibly direct. "If anything were to happen to that boy, it would break your son's heart." She hesitated. "And if it were known that you had some part..."
"Nothing will happen to him," he snapped, annoyed to hear the possibility voiced.
"Why would you risk it? He is just a boy who has some skill with a sword. What harm can it do?"
"He's Rupert's son." She left him no excuse, so he answered her with the truth.
"So?"
"The crowds were chanting his name. He is dangerous, like his father before him. Do you not remember?"
"Rupert does not want your crown; he never wanted it."
"You forget it is Arnaud's crown, too." He knew her too well to be careful of her feelings.
"You think this serves Arnaud?"
"He is my heir, and I will have no one look elsewhere, or doubt it."
She held his gaze for a long moment before she looked away. Her face was schooled for the watching court. But her words were soft and angry. "Rupert will not come for your throne. To resurrect this feud is madness. You endanger us all." Her voice dropped till it was little more than a whisper. "The threat Arnaud faces is not one you can fight. Saints help me, I wish that it were not so. Call off your knight before there is harm done that cannot be undone."
"I don't know what you mean. Sieur Ranald fights for the championship. As a member of our household, he carries our honor. Should I fault him for valuing it?"
"If he hurts the boy in a contest that should not see bloodshed, he will win us little honor. And if the boy defeats him, have you thought of that?" When he did not answer, she smiled with bitter triumph. "You were a fool over Rupert, and you will repeat your mistakes with his son." Again, he made no answer. She fell silent, though he felt her gaze for a moment longer.
He looked down on the fighters, but Beatrice's words lingered. Ranald was pressing hard and the boy was fighting to protect himself. It was plain enough, now, that Ranald intended injury. The crowd had grown quieter, uncertain. One of the adjudicators glanced up. Ferdinand made no sign and the man looked away. It was answer enough. A moment later, the next touch was made. Ranald's lunge slipped past the boy's guard and pierced his shoulder. As the adjudicators called the touch, Edouard staggered back. The crowd was hushed and silent now, understanding what had happened. It was not the boy's sword arm, but it was a significant wound.
Ferdinand narrowed his gaze, trying to measure the wound's position. The boy was hurt; there was no doubting that. But was it enough to stop him? The thrust had been cleverly placed, angling between the hard leather that protected shoulder and arm, and the metal cuirass. Ranald lowered his sword and stood waiting, his face blank. Ferdinand saw that the Chamfort knights had gathered at the edge of the lists.
Edouard de Chamfort stood alone, slightly hunched against the pain. He did not touch his shoulder or even glance to the wound. The adjudicator went to him. Ranald stood watching; his face was expressionless, but Ferdinand read his unease. The crowd murmured.
Edouard straightened. He rejected the adjudicator's concern and advice. His angry words were lost to the distance, but it was clear he would not consider retiring. As Ferdinand watched, the adjudicator stepped back. The boy took a step, and faltered.
A new murmur of noise, then the crowd stilled to breathless silence. At the end of the lists, there was a stir among the tight group of knights. A blond haired young man pushed forward, and a standard was quickly raised. The blue and silver of Chamfort rippled and snapped open in the breeze. Ferdinand sensed movement at his shoulder. He turned as Arnaud came painfully to his feet. He raised a hand in protest, and was ignored.
Arnaud walked slowly forward until he stood, hands braced against the rail, looking down into the lists at his cousin. Edouard looked up to meet his gaze. After a moment, he smiled and nodded to Arnaud. Then he gathered himself and walked forward to face Ranald. Raising his sword, he grinned at the knight. Ferdinand recognized the look on his nephew's face. He shivered.
Beatrice leaned close. "Is this what you wanted?" She was watching Arnaud.
He did not answer her. Arnaud moved slowly back to his seat. Brother Claude went to his side.
Ferdinand looked away as the contest resumed. He watched as Ranald advanced, swinging his blade with easy strength. The boy parried and stepped back, his left arm clenched useless at his side. He met the next stroke and held through the flurry that followed. He gave ground but sparingly, fighting with dogged resolve. It was a brave performance, Ferdinand acknowledged, but hopeless. Ranald held too great an advantage now. The knight needed only one touch and it was done.
He was pleased to see Ranald sticking to his task, however distasteful. The knight attacked with a grim efficiency that promised no quarter. He made no att
empt to decorate his work with unnecessary flourishes, nor could his opponent be sure what tactics he would use. Beyond the lists, the Chamfort knights were openly restless. Ferdinand checked to see that the instructions he had given the duty captain had been followed. Reassured there would not be trouble, he turned back to the fight.
Ranald was growing impatient. Against an opponent who could manage no more than a shuffling, painful defense, he had not been able to take the final touch. If the stalemate continued, the contest would develop an element of farce, and the knight knew it. He drove forward with a run of high cuts and then a sudden switch, a feint to the left, to his opponent's doubly weakened side. He used the same high, angled cut and, for a moment, Ferdinand thought it was done. Ranald's blade swept down with the same vicious resolve, but this time the boy moved with a sudden silky speed. The blades met; Edouard's sheered away and, as they passed, he spun and struck across Ranald's exposed back.
The adjudicators called the touch. The crowd went wild. Only an act of will kept Ferdinand from flinging to his feet and openly expressing his rage. The boy had been shamming. Ferdinand's hand crushed against the carved wood of his chair. Whatever happened, the boy would pay for this. He would pay dearly.
Ranald was standing very still, as if he had suffered some injury. He was staring at his opponent. Ferdinand followed his gaze and saw the blood sheening Edouard de Chamfort's cuirass. The breath caught in his throat then, as he understood the look on Sieur Ranald's face. It held him frozen as the adjudicators called the combatants forward for the final time.
Leaning close, Beatrice, spoke quickly, "How far do you intend to let it go?" She continued without waiting for his answer. "Call your knight off; the risk is too great." There was a measure of sympathy in her voice. "Arnaud is watching."
She was right. At the end of the lists, the Chamfort knights stood shoulder to shoulder beneath their banner. The court was watching, too. Ranald looked grim. His opponent was injured, but had shown himself unnervingly resolute and, without inviting censure, Ranald could not flout the rules again. Glancing up the knight's expressionless face said no less. Ferdinand made a slight gesture. Ranald's gaze dropped. He turned as Edouard de Chamfort came forward to face him. The boy flexed his shoulders. There was a wild look in his eyes and, despite his injuries, he grinned. Sieur Ranald spoke to him. The words were too soft to carry beyond where they stood. Then he bowed. The gesture was not returned and as they closed, the boy remained wary, dangerous as an injured wolf.
Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3) Page 10