Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3)

by Richard Crawford

  She searched for and found the Chancellor. As she watched, he left his seat at a summons from a page, disappearing from sight at the hall's shadowed edge. The meal was ending, and laughter and chatter increased as the court waited for the King to lead them through to the evening's entertainment, another masque.

  When Ferdinand rose, Mariette held back, disentangling herself from the conversation and laughter eddying around her, thinking of slipping away. She was tired, and there was little of use to be learned tonight. Her path was blocked by a youth she did not recognize. He bowed and offered her his arm. Soft brown hair curled to his collar as he faced her, serious, unsmiling.

  "My lady, may I escort you?"

  She paused, studying him in silence. Sent, dared or smitten? It amused her to judge. Under her intent regard, a flush spread across high cheekbones; he moistened his lips and swallowed, more anxious than seductive. Smitten.

  It was an aspect of the game she had not considered. Of late, there were plenty of youths who would try their luck, spurred on by family or friends. But near as many came because they were drawn to her act, or perhaps even what lay beneath it. She found them harder to deal with. As she opened her mouth to send him away, the boy was displaced by a newcomer.

  A tall man with short, sun-touched tawny hair replaced the boy; his hand settled above her elbow, and one glance had the boy bowing and retreating. She shook free of his hold and headed for the doors. The corridor was lit by candles, the light reflected in gilt-edged mirrors. Mariette hesitated. She cast one glance to the retreating figures, her admirer among them, but Piers caught up with her before she could decide to go after him. They faced each other, multiple reflections shimmering around them.

  She tilted her head back and smiled. "Piers, what brings you to court?" She knew the answer, could see it in the way he was looking at her. Hazel eyes like his younger brother, the same leashed energy, or anger. But he was not Jai. Piers was his mother's son. She knew she should be wary of him. The thought angered her, and she moved forward, forcing him to stand aside or lay hands on her.

  "I came to see you, of course." He smiled, and fell into step close at her side. "I was concerned, but I find you flourishing and not lonely at all. It seems widowhood suits you, Mariette." The silence lasted a dozen strides. "Ah, but of course, you would have it there is a greater purpose to the games you are playing."

  She glanced round, but there was no one within earshot. "A purpose your brother and your mother share. They too want Hugo's murderers brought to justice. Are they also deluded in their endeavors?"

  "Jai is half mad with grief and guilt and likely to get himself killed in recompense." He spoke without obvious concern, accepting it as something she must know. "As for my mother," he shrugged. "No one of good sense would be swayed by what she claims to believe."

  "And why should I care what you think, Piers?"

  He caught her arm, jerking her to a halt. "I will make you care if you risk Montmercy to Ferdinand's anger."

  "What?" She tried to break free, but he held her hard. "Francis is heir to Montmercy. Ferdinand has no cause to interfere in my son's inheritance."

  He laughed, a hiss of sound, and pinned her hard against the wall. "Do you imagine Ferdinand will do nothing if you continue as you are? That he will be content to see the strength of Montmercy and Chamfort allied against him?"

  "That's ridiculous, Edouard de Chamfort is…" The words of protest died on her lips. A moment's shock held her frozen. She wondered how she could have missed something so obvious. But that did not make it Piers's concern. "It is nothing, the court think it an affair, tawdry but harmless. Ferdinand will see that. He is not the only one …"

  "You see it now." His voice was soft with malice. He leant close so his breath brushed her hair and skin, a mocking intimacy. "If you must play games, Mariette, choose your playmates carefully. I'll see you in a nunnery before I see you married off and Montmercy seeded to one of Ferdinand's lackeys."

  Her hand cracked hard across his face, pure reflex, but she let her nails rake his jaw with intent. He staggered back, cursing. He recovered quickly and came towards her snarling a curse. She lifted her hand, and the slender blade glittered in the candlelight. A jerk of her hand and he retreated. A gasp of breathless laughter escaped her as she saw the look on his face; she pursued him a step and flashed the blade towards his throat.

  He stumbled backwards. "Saints, Mariette, are you gone completely mad?"

  "Never threaten me," she said, her rage suddenly cold as ice. "And remember these two things well, Piers; Montmercy is Francis's inheritance and none of your affair. And how I conduct myself is no one's affair but mine." She stepped back, lowering the blade, but still holding it ready. "Ferdinand knows I am a better ally than enemy; he would never be fool enough to threaten me." She spoke with certainty, hiding her own doubt. Her intimacy with Edouard de Chamfort was no threat to Ferdinand, and she would take care to make sure the King knew it.

  Piers retreated another step. He gave a brief bow, apparently ceding her the victory. But she knew him too well to be fooled; he was a relentless player, just like his mother. He would be searching for the chink in her armor. She watched him walk away, waiting until he passed out of sight before she slid the blade back into the sheath hidden at her waist. Then she turned back towards the masque. It seemed her night was not yet done.

  The court was gathered in one of the large salons. A stage had been set at one end and seats for Ferdinand and the ambassador. Members of the court were ranged around them. Mariette made her way among them to find a place; as she did so, she caught the gaze of the brown haired youth and smiled.

  Chapter 17

  The chateau lay quiet in the afternoon sun, pale stone glistening beneath a forest of dark capped turrets. On the south terrace, a door opened and a boy in the blue and silver livery of Chamfort slipped through. With a glance to check there was no one around, Remy de Longerac ran down the steps to the lawn. Flicking blond hair from his eyes, he hurried past the fountain with its shimmering rainbow. He ignored the gardeners' shouted taunts, well aware that he had no business using the most private family terrace as a short cut. He had only been a squire at Chamfort for one season, but he knew well enough the places squires were allowed and those where they were not. And he had almost learned to ignore the taunts of the under servants.

  He crossed the lawns and turned between tall hedges to take the path towards the stables. Soon he passed beneath the strand of ancient yew trees that marked the edge of the formal gardens. The stable buildings lay ahead. Holding a sealed note carefully in one hand, he entered the yard and looked anxiously about. There was one groom close by sweeping the cobbles. Remy trotted towards him.

  "Where is Sieur Edouard de Chamfort?"

  The man came to a halt, leaning on his broom. "In the practice arenas, where else would he be?"

  Remy nodded thanks and turned away. Before he had gone two strides, the man called after him.

  "Take care, young master, if it's your intention to interrupt him."

  Uncertain, Remy came to a halt. He turned back. "I have an urgent message. It cannot wait." He raised the note.

  "I'm sure that's right." The man shrugged. "Just have a care, our newest knight don't much like to be disturbed, and that young stallion of his has a mean temper…"

  Though he suspected he was being baited, Remy had to ask. "The message is important; Sieur Edouard would not let his horse strike me while I do my duty."

  "Maybe not, all I'm saying is take care. The pair of them are in a bad humor today. Heavy night if you know what I mean." The man winked.

  Remy glanced down at the thick paper with its blood red seal. "Thank you for your advice, but I am sure he will want to have this note."

  "Oh so am I, young sir."

  Remy hurried out of the stable yard, leaving the mocking voice behind. He took the path towards the practice arenas. Even though he guessed the groom's warning was another stupid tease, his pace slowed as he
approached. Then he saw them and his fear was forgotten. He came to a halt staring in awe.

  The sand arena was packed with knights and horses. The dark trees beyond made a dramatic backdrop to the blinding glitter of armor. Remy shivered at the clash of steel. After a moment, he remembered his task and walked on. It was not hard to find Sieur Edouard, and if his armor was the plainest on the field, there was no mistaking his magnificent dapple-gray stallion. They were waiting at the end of the tiltyard, next to run and matched against a knight on a black courser. Remy thought he recognized Sieur Michel, one of the most senior knights and a close friend of Prince Rupert.

  Remy moved closer, drawn to the tiltyard, his task forgotten for the moment. The match had attracted quite a crowd and, unwilling to interrupt, he found a place at the edge. He watched the squire attending Sieur Edouard choose a lance and carry it to him. As the knight reached to take it, the gray stallion pawed the ground and flattened his ears, causing the squire to step sharply aside. Remy watched as Sieur Edouard snapped his visor down, close enough to hear the murmur of his voice as he soothed the horse. The knight hefted the lance, testing its weight, and set it across his body. Everything stilled as the two knights paced their horses forward. They came to a halt facing each other down the length of the barrier. The knight acting as adjudicator signaled. For a moment, there was silence. Remy glanced around, in the dazzle of sunlight it seemed that everyone was watching.

  The gray stallion showed its inexperience, half rearing as it leapt forward. At the far end, the black horse began its run. Within strides, the horses stretched to a full gallop, hooves pounding as they skimmed the sand. Sieur Edouard gripped the reins one-handed, guiding his horse close along the barrier; his right arm held the lance steady, slanted across his body towards his opponent. It was clear he had to work hard to keep the overexcited stallion running true. Sieur Michel had an easier ride.

  Remy knew this was practice, but it seemed there would be no slackening or quarter given between these two. Within seconds, the knights closed. In the last strides, their lances came up; both aimed true. Remy winced at the shattering impact. Two full hits. The next moment, the rebated lances shattered. Both knights rocked in the saddle but kept their seats, and the horses galloped on, barely breaking stride. As the knights drew rein at the end of the tiltyard and turned back, the scores were called.

  "Sieur Edouard, a hit to the body, four points. Sieur Michel, a hit to the head, six points."

  The knight on the black courser flipped his visor up, revealing a tanned and smiling face. "So, Edouard, despite the admiration of all the court ladies, you still cannot best an old man with a lance." As Sieur Edouard turned in his saddle to answer, the other man laughed and added quickly. "However good you are with the sword, it seems we still have something to teach you."

  "Look to your own skill, Michel, I will worry about mine." Reaching his squire, Sieur Edouard flung the broken lance aside. He pushed his visor up. "Who else was ever so cursed by success?" he demanded. The squire did not attempt an answer.

  The gray stallion reared and pranced, then stood like a rock as Edouard de Chamfort's fist closed tight on the reins. "Another lance, before Sieur Michel laughs himself to a fit."

  Remy could not tell how much the teasing had truly angered the knight, but he could put off his errand no longer. Eyeing the stallion nervously, he stepped forward his voice little more than a whisper. "Sieur Edouard."

  The knight did not hear him, but his squire did and pointed. As Sieur Edouard swung his stallion round, Remy took another anxious step forward, raising his arm to show the note. It was a foolish thing to do, he knew it even as, catching sight of him, the young stallion snorted and reared. Remy saw steel-shod hooves striking the air close to his head. Terrified, he stepped back and stumbled, almost falling. He heard Sieur Edouard curse. For a moment, the stallion seemed certain to trample him, but then Sieur Edouard curbed his horse, wrenching it away.

  As Sieur Edouard brought the furious stallion under control, Remy stood trembling. He was afraid he would be rebuked for his foolishness, but the knight asked quietly.

  "What is your name, and what is your business here, boy?"

  "Remy, Sieur. I bring an urgent message."

  "Are you hurt?"

  "No, Sieur."

  "Well, if this message is so urgent you best read it, Remy." Edouard de Chamfort raised a heavy gauntlet, and continued with a slight smile. "For I am busy, Sieur Michel awaits a lesson, and I have no time to undress for messages."

  "Yes, Sieur." Still shaking, Remy fumbled with the sealed note, his fingers awkward under Sieur Edouard's impatient gaze. Revealed the words danced beneath his eyes, he took a breath. "The message is from the Marechal St Andre, Sieur." Remy hesitated. "He asks you to attend him at once." He fell silent as Sieur Edouard muttered a curse.

  "Is there more? When did he arrive?"

  "No, Sieur. I don't know, Sieur. Should I take your answer to him?"

  "No, my answer must be delivered in person. Thank you." He dismissed Remy with a wave, and turned back to his opponent. "Michel, I am called away, your lesson will have to wait."

  Lingering to watch, Remy heard the older man laugh. "Ah, Edouard, as arrogant as ever. You speak of lessons and surely you could do with one. After that display, there is only one likely outcome to another run." He turned to the watching crowd. "Never mind, it wouldn't do for our esteemed King's Champion to end up on his backside."

  Edouard de Chamfort waited for the laughter to subside. He curbed his stallion to a dramatic rear and bowed. "Your concern is misplaced."

  "Oh, I don't know – we are talking of your best feature." As his opponent cursed, Sieur Michel grinned. "Edouard, I'm disappointed to see success has not improved your humor."

  "And age has not improved your wit." But Sieur Edouard was grinning too. "Enjoy your success, old man, we will resume tomorrow."

  As he turned away, Sieur Michel called after him. "What is so urgent that you will leave now, or are you truly afraid to be beaten by an old man?"

  For a moment, Sieur Edouard hesitated. "St Andre has asked that I attend him."

  "Edouard, wait." Sieur Michel raised a hand and then spurred his horse alongside the gray stallion. "Your father will happily speak to St Andre."

  "I know, but the Marechal has called for me. He is our guest. I can hardly ignore his summons."

  Gaze lowered, Sieur Michel flexed a gauntleted hand. "I think your father planned to speak to him first. He knows it might be awkward for you."

  Edouard considered this for a moment. "Ah, so you had no great wish to test your lance this fine afternoon?"

  "I think your father wants to explain to the Marechal why you are needed here."

  "So there is no misunderstanding?"

  Remy did not understand the conversation, but he saw that Sieur Edouard was not pleased by it. The laughter was gone from his face, replaced by a tight frown. After a moment, Sieur Michel said patiently.

  "No. I believe he wished to spare you. He thought you might prefer it if he was the one to disappoint the Marechal."

  "Well, St Andre has called for me now. I won't hide from him like a naughty child."

  In the silence that followed this, Remy saw Sieur Michel raise his eyebrows. "The situation with Ferdinand is delicate, we must be careful now."

  "This has nothing to do with Ferdinand. It is between St Andre and me. If I have made a commitment I cannot honor, then don't you think I should at least be the one to tell him?"

  "You made a commitment to him."

  "Of a sort, yes."

  "Of what sort?"

  "It hardly matters now. It is between him and me, and it has little to do with my father."

  "And how would you reason that?"

  Standing close by, Remy heard the snap of annoyance in Sieur Michel's voice. He felt awkward knowing he should not be listening, but he feared to move and draw attention to himself.

  "Perhaps I am mistaken," Sieur Edouard said. "But I
thought it was my choice to remain at Chamfort?" He received no answer. "If so, then it is for me to explain that choice and the reasons for it. Or am I not even to speak for myself now?"

  "I think you should respect your father's wishes."

  "If I was privy to them, I might consider it."

  He rode off without waiting for an answer. Sieur Michel stared after him but did not follow.

  Chapter 18

  By the time he reached the stables, Edouard was sorry for the way he had spoken to Michel. In truth, his anger was directed towards his father. What right had he to interfere? Why must he always show this lack of trust? It stung a little that Michel supported his father. But it was not fair to blame him. Feeling an unsettling mixture of anger and guilt, Edouard reined Bluesteel to a halt. Rico came running to hold the stallion's head.

  He gave Rico instructions and left the boy to see to Bluesteel. He rarely left the stallion to anyone, not even Rico who adored the horse, but he was unwilling to keep St Andre waiting. The Marechal was not a patient man. He hurried through the chateau's corridors until he reached St Andre's room. After taking a moment to compose himself, he knocked and entered.

  It was a grand bedroom. One of Chamfort's finest. The vast four-poster bed hung with swathes of crimson silk, the polished floorboards scattered with crimson and gold rugs, and the walls decorated with ivory silk damask and gilt mirrors. A rosewood desk was set near the windows. It was already piled with letters and maps, and more dispatch bags were stacked nearby. St Andre stood beside the desk, staring out the window. He was gazing across the gardens towards the distant woods, but his expression suggested it was not the view that held his attention. Even in a room as grand as this one, the Marechal's presence overshadowed everything.