He looked back to Louis slumped in his arms, his face was streaked with blood, like the bodies he had seen on the battlefields. He shook his head against the thought, wishing he could clean the blood away, bring his brother back.
"Edouard."
Charles's voice snapped him out of the nightmare. He looked up and saw his father was walking towards them, his face grim. As Edouard reined his horse to a halt, he held out his arms.
"Give him to me."
Edouard passed Louis into his father's arms. He sat numbly watching as they disappeared among the crowd. The chateau swallowed them all.
"Edouard, come on."
He looked back to Charles, shaking his head. "I'll see to the horses."
Charles was silent for a moment. "This was not your fault. No one will think so."
"I should have taken more care. I was supposed to be looking out for them, and now Louis is…"
"Louis will be fine."
"You don't know that."
"No," Charles admitted. "But I believe it, and you have to do the same. Come with me now and see what Master Eric and Brother Yann say." He stood waiting. "You'll feel better when you hear."
"No."
"He won't blame you."
"He always blames me."
Charles shrugged. "Only when he has cause."
He met his brother's gaze thinking he had been a fool to expect anything else. "Damn you, Charles." He turned away before he said anything worse. He spurred the gelding towards the stables, dragging Charles reluctant mount with him. But his last sight of Louis pale face stayed in his head.
Chapter 15
The King's Arms was a tiny inn, no more than one thin room squeezed between buildings near the heart of Chamfort town. Edouard found a table in the darkest corner, and sat nursing a mug of ale, staring at the wall.
"He'll be alright."
Edouard flinched at the sound of Angelo's voice. He had chosen the King's Arms because it was not one of the Chamfort knights' usual haunts, and because he was not in the mood for company. He glanced up; at least Angelo was alone. A sudden image of Louis's face, covered in blood, made him flinch again. "I hope so, it was a nasty fall," he said softly.
Angelo dropped onto the bench opposite, graceful as a cat in maroon silk and black velvet, his hair gleaming gold in the dull lamplight. He had a flask and two cups in one hand. He also had two swollen and black eyes.
Edouard stared for a moment. "Damn, I'm sorry," he said.
"It takes a lot for you to beat me, and as usual you could only manage it by cheating." Angelo grinned, clearly pleased with this account. He set the flask down and waved the apology away. "But it was an accident."
"Of course."
"Just like Louis."
Edouard took a mouthful of ale, keeping his head down to avoid Angelo's gaze. The comparison was acute to the point of spite and, in truth, just as Angelo's black eyes were no accident, he must accept some responsibility for Louis's fall. He knew that was how his father would see it. He was not sure if Angelo was being spiteful, but he was right. "I'm sorry."
"Louis has a thick head, just like you."
"I wish everyone would stop saying that. It's not funny, and it doesn't help."
Angelo was silent for a moment. Close by a man cursed and another laughed as he scooped up a pile of winnings.
"He'll be alright."
"Yeah, well you didn't see him…" He stopped. Angelo was not known for his patience. It was surprising he would make even this much of an effort after what had happened between them earlier. But as the saying went, you never quite knew whether it was the good or the bad Angel.
Edouard watched him lift the flask and pour two cups of pale red sloe gin, thick as blood. Angelo shoved one cup across the rough wood.
"No." Edouard shook his head.
"You're not doing Louis any good moping around like this."
"And this will help how?"
"It won't hurt, either." Angelo shrugged and raised his cup. It was a challenge and after a moment Edouard mirrored his action. The sloe gin slid across his tongue sweet as nectar, burning down his throat to take his breath away. Angelo reached for the flask to pour again.
"No, Angel."
"Don't call me that." He poured and lifted his cup again, waiting until Edouard matched him. Neither of them could speak for a moment. Angelo set his cup down with a bang. "So, what's this really about? You've seen worse."
"Just a shock, I guess. It's different seeing your little brother like that." He couldn't get it out of his head. "They wanted to jump the logs; I just wish I had paid more attention, told them not to race…" He stopped and shrugged. "I suppose I was thinking about something else." He had more sense than to tell Angelo who he had been thinking about.
"Well drink, and in the morning he'll be fine, you'll see."
Refusing would mean more questions, and perhaps a row, or worse. He figured even Angelo, who could drink like a drain, couldn't stand too much of this stuff before he started spewing. So as Angelo poured and drank, he matched him. For a while, they drank in silence, and it did help to blur the hard edge of guilt. It was almost relaxing, until Angelo's gaze landed on one of the serving girls. He smiled at her, turning with a grin as she blushed.
"A wager," he said.
"No."
"It will take your mind off things. But if you are too chicken to take me on?"
"Saint's blood, Angel." Edouard looked towards the blushing girl. She had light brown hair, curling to her shoulders beneath a plain cap. Her body was soft as ripe fruit beneath a plain linen blouse. "She's fresh as a daisy, leave her be."
"She'll not stay fresh long. Let the girl choose for herself."
"No!" He slammed the cup against the boards. "Go to Madame's if that's what you want."
A moment's silence. Angelo stared at him, eyes narrowed. "Come with me, then." Another challenge.
"No, I'm not in the mood."
Angelo poured again, trickling the last dregs into Edouard's cup. "Ah, so that's it," he said. "You're moping for the Duchess."
"I'm worried about my brother, is that too much for your thick head to grasp?"
"And you're pining for her; I can see it in your eyes." Angelo emptied his cup and banged it down, laughing. "Well, I'll bet a florin she isn't pining for you."
Edouard sipped the sloe gin. The silence lasted a dozen heartbeats.
"You really think she is sitting alone at court pining, even thinking about you?" Angelo asked. The words jabbed like a blade, and he did not bother to hide his contempt.
"I think it is none of your business." They had skirted the edge of this row before. Edouard was not in the mood to hear it again.
"And I think you are a fool."
"You're jealous." Edouard drank and banged his cup down to mark the point.
"And you're a fool if you can't see the game she is playing." Angelo grabbed a passing serving girl and pressed a coin into her hand. "Here, sweetheart, bring us a flask of good red." He settled back on the bench. "So?"
Edouard set his jaw and said nothing.
"You can pretend if you like, but since she's been back at court, she collects lovers like trophies. Of course she wanted the new King's Champion to add to her set. This week it is probably the new ambassador…"
"Don't, Angel, or I swear…"
Angelo hesitated, but only for a heartbeat. "You know she started with Roslaire de Lyon?"
"The corsair, now I know you're lying. Why would she…"
"Because he was a corsair no more; he was the King's new favorite, a merchant prince now with letters of marque and enough gold to fund the King's new fleet. He was the first to catch her eye. You know damn well there've been a dozen others since. The gossips can hardly keep up."
"Gossip is another word for lies. I won't listen to it." In part it was true, his family had always attracted too much of the gossips' attention. He had learned it was hard to ignore the court's spite, better to avoid hearing it. But there were
things he knew and didn't want to hear repeated, not that anything would stop Angelo. He was pouring the wine now, silent for a moment, but Edouard knew that would not last.
"Be careful, that's all I'll say, as you don't want to hear it." Angelo grinned. He drank off a cup in one swallow, and waited for Edouard to match him. Then he grinned again suggestively. "And if you must play, at least make sure you enjoy the game."
"It's not a game. She's coming to Chamfort soon." The words slipped out, revealing far too much.
"For your father's birthday, half the court are coming."
"She's coming to see me." The memory of his father's words and tone seared again. "But he has forbidden me to see her." A wave of fury surged through him. Damn his father for interfering. He gulped wine before he said anything more, knowing this was madness even as he could not stop himself. "Threatened to have me birched." The memory of that humiliating scene raised a scalding resentment.
"He said that?" Angelo shook his head. "Well, he clearly hasn't heard all the gossip." Angelo poured more wine and laughed. "Saints, Ed, it sounds like a bad play. Don't pretend you're star-crossed lovers." Another silence. "You'll make a fool of yourself before the whole court if you don't see it for what it is."
The wine had loosed his anger and done something strange to his head. Edouard drank off a cup in one gulp. "You're jus' jealous," he said as his tongue grew numb.
Angelo shook his head. He raised his cup, grinning foolishly. "And you're too stupid to live."
It was an old joke. After a moment, Edouard smiled and touched his cup to Angelo's, slopping wine on to the table as he accepted the toast. "Too stupid to live." He drank, but he could not let Angelo have the last word. "I don't care what you say she's done. It's different between us. You'll see."
Angelo stared owlishly and said nothing.
"You will," he repeated. He stood, trying not to stagger. "Come on, I'm going to see how Louis is."
"What about your father?"
"Damn my father!"
Angelo mumbled another complaint, but stood up obediently. Together they weaved towards the door. Just as Edouard reached for the latch, the door was jerked open. He staggered forward, colliding with the new arrival.
"Saint's blood," he cursed. Angelo crashed into him from behind.
The hand that pushed him away was decorated with expensive and familiar rings. With a sense of doom, Edouard looked up to meet Charles's gaze.
"Is it Louis?" he managed to say.
Charles stared at him. "Are you drunk?"
There was no point denying it. "What's happened? Is Lou all right?"
"I came to tell you. I thought you might be worried. But it seems you were too busy having fun."
"Please, tell me…"
"You revolt me," Charles said. He had a look of weary contempt that reminded Edouard of their father. But Charles was not finished. "You say you are not irresponsible and complain that father does not trust you. But what reason do you give him, or any of us, to trust you?"
"We can talk about what I have done wrong later." He formed the words carefully. "Just tell me about Louis." Anger was growing, throbbing behind his eyes, and he felt a rising urge to violence.
Angelo glanced sideways at him and then stepped forward, moving between them but subtly. "Charles, this is my fault. For mercy's sake tell him how the boy fares."
For a long moment, Charles glared at Angelo. Then he turned back. Edouard met his gaze.
"Please, Charles."
"Louis woke a little while ago. Brother Yann and the physicians say he will be fine." Charles turned away. "He's asking for you."
It felt like a ton weight had been lifted from his neck. "Yes!" He turned to grin at Angelo and then set off at a run.
Chapter 16
Mariette smoothed cream and powder over her skin to hide the shadows beneath her eyes. A dab of red against her lips. She studied her reflection; a season at court had taken its toll: powder and rouge hid the evidence of strain, but she saw it in her eyes. It hardly mattered; the gossips would not notice anything beyond the paint and glitter. But she was glad to be leaving for Chamfort. Soon she would be away from them, if only for a while. And she would be glad to see Edouard. The thought surprised and unsettled her.
She set it aside and thought instead of Montmercy, of her son and daughter. She wondered if there was a way she might find the time to make the long journey. But each day brought new rumors. The shadow of unrest was spreading. Francis and Caterine felt far away, part of another life. It was better that way, and it kept the children safe. Slowly, she turned from the mirror and crossed the room to raise the lid of a traveling chest. Hugo's miniature lay hidden among swathes of lace and velvet.
Mariette lifted the tiny painting and pressed it to her lips, fighting the ache and sting of tears. She kept the miniature hidden. It did not fit the part she played at court, and it seemed she turned to it less and less. The thought scared her; was she forgetting him? And yet, in some way, every day was dedicated to his memory. For a moment, her thoughts turned guiltily to Edouard de Chamfort. But that was duty too, at least until she proved his innocence. A nagging sense of guilt remained.
A light footstep distracted her from brooding. Sophie approached, bringing her dress. Silk rustled as it settled over her underskirts. Sophie bent to stitch the tight, low cut bodice in place.
As the girl retreated a step, smiling at the result, Mariette chose jewels to wear at her wrist, neck and ears. Pearls already glowed in her piled hair, an almost vulgar show. She studied her reflection, crimson silk: bright as freshly spilt blood against pale flesh, lips glistening red, predatory. The gossips would love it. The thought prompted another moment of doubt, and a shiver rippled along her spine. Had she taken the game a step too far? She pushed the doubt aside; it was done, nothing could be changed. But the feeling remained, like a rider on a bolting horse, out of control, the exhilaration replaced by an edge of fear. But still that edge of pleasure, pulling her back.
Sophie was watching her, head tilted anxiously.
She smiled at the girl. "I look the part. A last night to play the game." Smoothing the silk, she turned away from Sophie's gaze and went to the desk littered with papers. A bundle of them were set ready, tied neatly. She lifted them in one hand and took a letter with her own seal in the other. "Take these to the Countess Diane at her house. Don't go alone. Ask Stefan, he will send men with you, but make sure they are out of livery."
Sophie came to take the papers. "Last time, she asked for news of her son."
Mariette glanced up, surprised. Diane de Baccasar was not a woman overly blessed with motherly instincts. She shrugged. "Tell her what Mathieu told me."
"Will that not worry her?"
For a moment, she thought of Francis, what it would be like to hear that news of her son. But she could not credit Diane with such feeling, at least not for her youngest son. "I doubt she is that concerned for Jaime's welfare, more likely it is information she craves." And power. The words echoed inside her head and brought another shiver. Only Francis stood between Diane's eldest son and the titles of Montmercy. Francis was well guarded, and Diane was his aunt. Whatever she thought of the other woman, she had to believe that was enough to keep her son safe from Diane's plotting.
Sophie nodded and turned towards the door. But she paused and turned back. "Be careful," she said.
Mariette nodded. From Sophie, the words did not have the sting, the twist of doubt, that so annoyed her from Mathieu or Jai. The concern in them weighed on her in a different way. Alone, she poured wine and settled by the fire, contemplating another evening of sideways glances. In giving up the role of grieving widow, she had laid herself open to gossip and casual spite.
There was no ease to be had anticipating it, she set the glass aside and, with a last glance to her mirror, left the room.
She had left it late enough that the court were gathered. It was a formal occasion, a feast to honor a new ambassador. Mariette took her place
and stood, head high, ignoring the whispers as they awaited the King.
A flurry of movement signaled Ferdinand's arrival. He led the ambassador to a place of honor and took his own seat. Beatrice and Arnaud followed close behind, Princess Gaynor a shadow at the Prince's heel. Mariette felt a pang of sympathy at the sight, and heard her concern echoed in a new hiss of whispers. The girl was comely, long honey-gold hair, cornflower eyes bright against peach gold skin. They said she was sweet tempered, but as she took a seat next to Arnaud, the distance between them was painfully obvious.
It should be a private matter, the feeling between a man and his wife, or the lack of it. But if Arnaud did not survive to claim his father's throne, then the hope was he would leave a son, at worst a daughter. The marriage was nearly a year old and there was no sign, or hope, that the Princess was bearing. It was said that ill health kept the Prince from her bed, other rumors were less kind. Mariette heard the speculation in the whispers. And she saw that Ferdinand sensed it, too. She saw the familiar twist of ill humor around the King's lips. Ferdinand had never been an easy tempered man, or a patient man content to let matters take their course. But it was foolish to criticize a King for that trait.
She glanced around at the court he ruled through strength and guile. Besides Arnaud, there were three men present who shared his royal bloodline, and along with Rupert, and his four sons, a dozen more in Valderon. If Arnaud did not survive and Ferdinand moved to bypass his brother in the succession, how many of them would accept Charles de Chamfort as their King without protest? How many of them already plotted and planned for that eventuality?
Pragmatic and ruthless, Ferdinand had held these powerful men in check for years, favoring, manipulating and pitting them against each other to achieve his ends. And he had always been strong enough that they must accept his maneuverings, but now his two weaknesses, his love for his son, and jealousy of his brother, skewed the game. As Arnaud's health failed, the King's sure touch was slipping; more often bitterness and anger were slanting his decisions and actions. She was not the only one to see it. She knew the young Chancellor was concerned, even if he kept the depth of his fear hidden behind carefully phrased words.
Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3) Page 16