"Your father may have had good reason to fear the Mayor's accusations. He may have acted only to protect his own, but…" The Marechal laid a hand on his shoulder. "Let me handle this. I have the right to act in the King's name. I swear I will find the truth and protect Chamfort." The Marechal's voice was soft, persuasive. "My men will search for the murderer, whatever form it takes. If you value his safety, do not involve your father."
Edouard stared at his friend, commander and mentor. Hard as he tried, he could not think, could not make sense of it all. He reached a hand to his head as the blackness threatened his vision. St Andre caught him as he staggered, slipping an arm beneath his shoulders. Gently the Marechal urged him towards the tunnel, his voice soft and determined.
"I only want to help, Edouard. Let me protect you and your family."
He nodded, surrendering to St Andre's will, trusting him.
"I will send Joachim to deal with the body; we must make sure that no hint of complicity in this death attaches to Chamfort."
"Whatever you think best."
They had reached the steps now. The climb robbed Edouard of the last of his strength. He let St Andre guide him through the chapel. Outside, it was near dusk, and the gardens were deserted. The long walk to the chateau passed in a stumbling blur. Inside they took the back stairs to the family wing.
At the door to his rooms, St Andre laid a hand on his shoulder. "Rest until dinner. My men will search. We will find the truth. You can speak to your father when we have the boy and can make more sense of this."
Edouard hesitated. It felt wrong to leave things like this. He wanted to go to his father, but St Andre was watching him.
"Do you trust me?"
"Of course, but…"
"Then let me deal with this. I swear no harm will come to your family. My men will search Chamfort, and I will find the truth." The Marechal opened the door. "Come, Edouard, a few more steps and you can rest."
With St Andre's help, he reached a chair. It seemed a long way down, and even as he felt the cushions at his back, he was falling, darkness crept across his vision. He tried to breathe, to hold it back. Vaguely, he heard St Andre call for his valet, and then the long fall into the darkness claimed him.
####
It was dusk before Remy dared leave the shelter of the wood. As the sun slipped below the horizon, he made his way through the trees. He scrambled down to the riverbank. On the far side, Chamfort town lay quiet. Lights glimmered softly through windows, and smoke from chimneys drifted above the houses. It looked just as it always did. He stared longingly at this peaceful scene, wishing that he could call the afternoon back, return to his studies. Wishing that everything could be as it had been.
But it was not, and he could not go back. He had witnessed something terrible. He was certain the creature would be waiting for him if he returned. He needed help, and there was only one person he could turn to. The only friend he had in Chamfort town, Simon, his father's old captain. He had visited the old man's home in the town many times. Simon would take him in.
He made his way to the river's edge and chose a place where it was possible to wade and swim across to the town, avoiding the bridge with its guards and questions. He crossed the river easily. Scrambling up the bank below the town, he pulled off his shirt, wringing it dry as best he could. Then he emptied the water from his boots. Simon's house backed on to the river in the opposite direction to the bridge. Remy set off quickly, keen to be out of sight.
He crept along the riverbank, past the gardens of the town's merchant houses. Simon's house was small for this wealthy area, but the old man enjoyed the river and liked to live close by it. Finding the rickety old gate through which Simon took his daily riverside walk, Remy hurried into the garden. After a quick glance around, he crossed to the door and knocked softly. He waited shivering. Through the small windows, he could see firelight. It was early, and he prayed Simon was at home. Minutes passed and Remy knocked again; alone in the dark garden, he felt the panic returning.
He heard voices outside the garden, someone walking beside the river. He froze until they faded into the distance. The walls around the small garden were high, but he felt a desperate urge to be inside the house. Remy tried the door. It was not locked. With a sigh of relief, he pushed the door open. The next moment, he was grabbed from behind. He struggled, but strong hands held him easily. Before he could think, he was turned roughly and slammed back against the wall. An arm across his throat held him pinned. He flailed wildly for a moment, his attacker unseen in the darkness.
"Remy, is that you? What are you doing hiding here in the dark?"
"Simon?"
"Aye, lad, what's this? You're shivering and soaking wet. Some prank gone awry?" Simon released him and dropped a hand to Remy's shoulder. "You best come inside, and we'll sort you out."
"Can I stay here?"
"Inside now, lad, let's get you warmed up first." He pushed Remy through the door, and on into the small living room. "Get out of those wet clothes."
Simon disappeared for a few minutes and returned with a blanket. He handed it to Remy, and then bent down to restore the fire. Soon it was roaring, its flickering light dancing across the walls. Wrapped in the blanket with his clothes spread out to dry, Remy crouched in a chair by the fire. His hands wrapped round a mug of hot broth.
"Now lad, what mischief have you been at?" Simon's voice was kindly, his tone amused.
"I've done nothing." Remy heard the wild note in his voice and tried to speak calmly. "There's no trouble, it's just that I've realized it was a mistake to come here. Father was right, I'll do as well at home."
"You want to go home, do you?" Incredulous and amused, Simon turned from closing the shutters. "After the fuss you made to come to Chamfort." He waited in vain for a response. "You don't really want to go home?"
Remy nodded, realizing how unlikely it sounded. "Please, Simon, if you would just help me."
"Remy, has something happened?" Simon joined him by the fire. "It isn't that unusual, trouble between the youngsters training in big houses. Sometimes it gets out of hand, but it can generally be sorted out."
"No." It came out near a shout, and for a moment they regarded each other in silence. Remy dropped his gaze first. He could not tell Simon what he had seen. He could hardly think of it himself; he wanted to pretend it had never happened, and if he told anyone, that would not be possible. "There is no trouble. I've changed my mind, that's all."
"Look, Remy, your father told me how you plagued him to let you come here so you could make a name and fortune of your own. He told me of the arguments and trouble it caused." Simon paused to choose his words. "He made it clear that both he and Bertran thought your place was at home. So after all the fuss, you've changed your mind this quickly?"
Remy nodded wordlessly. Simon took a couple of deep breaths. "It makes no sense, lad."
Remy shrugged, gazing into the flames. "It's not like I expected."
Simon frowned at him and then relented. "You look done in. Best stay here tonight, though by rights I should send you back. We'll talk it through properly in the morning."
Too exhausted to argue further, Remy collected up his clothes and made his way upstairs to the tiny room he had stayed in before. He climbed into the narrow bed, listening to the faint sounds of Simon moving around below. But it was a while before he closed his eyes.
Chapter 21
Charles sipped wine and covertly studied their guest. He knew little of the Marechal St Andre, though the man was a legend: friend and confidant to the King, undefeated as first general, the youngest man to carry the baton. And, crucially, St Andre had made his name in the years since Prince Rupert had left court. Charles supposed that was why Ferdinand had sent him. There was no history or allegiance between his father and the Marechal.
The King's first general settled easily into a high-backed chair. He savored a mouthful of wine, and lifted the glass to study the rich color. There was no doubt he was at home among l
uxury, and he could play the part of a courtier, unruffled, smiling and urbane. But even in silk and velvet, Charles could see the signs of his true calling; the hand that held the wine glass was callused, his face tanned and weathered. Muscles bulged beneath the beautifully tailored clothes. Ominously, the faint lines of old scars crisscrossed his knuckles.
It was easy to imagine the Marechal on a battlefield. Charles had heard near unbelievable tales of his exploits. Rumor made him the most gifted knight of his generation, though he had rarely taken part in tournaments. The legend around this man grew with every telling, and Charles did not doubt its veracity. St Andre had earned Edouard's respect and obedience, and that was not easily done. And who could fail to be impressed by the confidence of the man who felt no need to prove his strength? But, meeting him, Charles understood that St Andre was more than brute force. He could understand how this man had become one of the most powerful courtiers in Valderon. There was no denying his charisma, or his intellect, and it was easy to believe that those who served him did so with unswerving loyalty.
With a flash of annoyance, Charles thought of Edouard pale, grim-faced and sulky throughout dinner. It seemed that though his brother had agreed to remain at Chamfort, he was determined to make a childish show of his displeasure. Charles did not care if Edouard was put out, but his show of juvenile bad grace threatened to embarrass Chamfort. He turned back to study the man who had captured Edouard's loyalty and trust so completely, and caught a sharp glance from his father.
He knew his father was uneasy about this visit, and certain that the Marechal would bring unwelcome news. He had said as much earlier. Now the Prince turned to St Andre. His smile was guarded, his opening words direct.
"You bring word from the King?"
"I do," said St Andre. "He sends his greetings, and hopes that all at Chamfort are well."
"We are well and grateful for the King's interest." The Prince smiled.
It was said without irony. But Charles knew his father believed St Andre's visit would do little to enhance his or Chamfort's wellbeing.
"However," Rupert continued, "I am sure the King has not sent a man of your worth to us to convey simple good wishes." He paused, holding St Andre's gaze. "What particular duty are you here to fulfill, Marechal?"
"It is true," St Andre accepted the challenge gracefully. "The King has asked me to discuss certain matters with you, matters reflecting on the welfare and security of the realm; matters in which I have expertise." He showed no discomfort as he admitted this. "I will broach them now, if it pleases you?"
"Of course."
Despite his misgivings, Charles found himself impressed by the man's direct manner.
The Marechal continued smoothly, "I also wished to speak to you regarding Edouard, but first the King's business." He smiled. "I will speak frankly, if that is agreeable."
"Please do." His father's smile was without warmth.
"Then to business. It is no secret that Chamfort has a reputation for excellence, and the skill of the knights you train here is legendary. This summer has seen that reputation enhanced greatly. It is also known that many of Valderon's finest knights remain at Chamfort, giving their allegiance to its banner. The King is concerned to make the most of the excellence and strength gathered here. He has asked that I inspect Chamfort so that we may learn from its success, and judge how best such strength may serve Valderon."
The opening ploy and it was no surprise. Ferdinand had resented Chamfort's success and strength for years, and now he would hardly tolerate it holding the allegiance of so many knights. Charles wondered what part Edouard's success had played in the King's decision. He heard the same thought in his father's question.
"So Edouard made quite an impression?"
"Yes of course, but…" St Andre paused to raise his glass and drink. "The King has felt for some time that the skill and strength of Chamfort are underused."
"Underused!" Rupert said. It seemed a protest despite his intentions. "Chamfort knights fight and die in his armies. They serve the crown loyally."
St Andre nodded. "No one would deny it, but the knights of Chamfort are the best of Valderon. The King would like to see that excellence displayed more openly. It cannot impress hidden at Chamfort."
"How many will he take? Or, how many will he allow to remain?" Rupert asked tersely.
Charles understood this was both insult and attack, barely veiled. A mark of Ferdinand's distrust and contempt. The King did nothing without reason. It was a warning, and he wondered what other news the Marechal brought.
St Andre was watching the Prince. "The King has asked me to review Chamfort's strength, and to make a decision based on my findings. He wishes to bring the finest knights to his court, to enhance the reputation of Valderon."
"He'll want Edouard, then," said Charles bitterly.
"No, the King did not call for Edouard." St Andre turned to him and smiled. "But I fear you are angry with me, and concerned that your brother's success has somehow harmed Chamfort."
"I can hardly blame you for Edouard's victory in the King's Tournament, or for the manner of it." Charles smiled politely. "But we must live with the consequences."
"If it is any comfort, I can tell you both that this would have come anyway. The King was already looking to Chamfort. Half the court look to Chamfort now. That is not Edouard's doing."
Dangerous ground. Charles glanced to his father, but the Prince chose to ignore the Marechal's reference to the succession.
"So Ferdinand will take knights from Chamfort. He will want the best, but what if they do not wish to go?"
"Perhaps such concerns can wait until I have reviewed Chamfort's strength," St Andre said softly. "My findings may reassure the King."
The Prince nodded. Charles set his wine aside, wondering at this hint of support. But it was clear from St Andre's face that there was more, and that it was not good news.
"Ferdinand has sent other instructions?" he asked, unwilling to wait for the next gambit.
"Indeed." The Marechal was not looking at him. His gaze was firmly fixed on the Prince. "It is the King's pleasure to suggest that your youngest sons should be fostered at Etrives for a period of time."
"He can't mean to take Louis and Henri?" The Prince set his wine glass aside gently. "They are hardly more than children."
His father hid it well, but Charles shared his shock. He did not like the idea that his brothers would become pawns in this game.
"The King feels it would be beneficial." St Andre said without expression. "It is commonplace for boys to be fostered to great houses, and he believes it will be an opportunity for your sons and the sons of Etrives to make friends. Such friendships will serve Valderon in the future. The boys will experience life at Etrives; they can study at the University, and of course there is nowhere better to learn the art of war. I will be there myself for much of the year."
Etrives. Suddenly everything led to Etrives. The army would be there this summer. And Ferdinand wanted to send Louis and Henri there, too. Charles found the idea unsettling. It was the loss of autonomy, and the realization of how little was safe.
"He wants to send my sons to Etrives, but I do not understand the reason. They will learn the skills of war well enough here. You have just said so yourself, and surely Edouard is proof enough." The Prince spoke with clipped formality.
"The King feels it will benefit Chamfort and Etrives."
"What benefit is there to Chamfort?" The Prince came to his feet. He started to pace. Charles could see the effort he made to hold his temper in check. Reaching the far side of the room, he spun round. "Louis had a bad fall yesterday, he is not well enough to travel. I will not allow it."
For a moment, there was silence. St Andre raised his hand in a quick gesture of sympathy and apology. "Please, be assured no one would demand it. The King has suggested that the boys travel to Etrives in the spring, so there is no hurry."
The Prince stopped by the window and turned his back, staring ou
t into the darkness. The silence lengthened.
St Andre glanced to Charles. When he spoke, there was no mistaking his sympathy.
"I am sorry to bring you such ill news. These are difficult times for Chamfort." He hesitated. "Edouard has told me as much, and I understand why you need him here now."
"What has Edouard told you?" The Prince turned slowly to face the Marechal.
"That you want him to remain at Chamfort, and I understand why."
Charles felt the crackle of tension and cursed his brother. What had Edouard told this man?
His father moved away from the window. There was no expression now in his voice or face. Always a bad sign. "I do not know what you understand, or what my son has told you, but it is a simple matter of family loyalty. It is my wish that he serves Chamfort before any other."
"Rightly so, but if I may be so bold as to offer advice?"
It was unexpected. Charles was surprised when, after a moment, his father nodded. The Marechal continued immediately.
"You and your sons have a part to play in what is coming, there is no way to avoid it, and you cannot protect yourself isolated at Chamfort." St Andre stood up. "I apologize if my words offend or pry too closely into your affairs. I would not presume to speak so frankly except for my friendship with your son." It was an opening to an offer of some sort.
Charles felt his fingers start to tap against the chair arm and stilled them. This was all too fast. St Andre was the King's first general, a powerful member of the court, but he was also the man who had won Edouard's trust and loyalty. Could they trust him? He was glad he did not have to make the call.
"I thank you for your concern. It is true that in time Chamfort may be drawn into affairs of great import to the realm, but I do not think that time has come yet. The King is strong, and I pray that Prince Arnaud's health may yet improve." The Prince spoke the words without irony, though all of them knew it was the only answer that avoided treason.
"Of course," St Andre said, accepting the empty words with a courtier's grace. "I'm afraid you think I seek to compromise you?"
Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3) Page 20