Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3)

by Richard Crawford

  "Roslaire de Lyon is a merchant prince, with money enough to fit out the vessels we have just inspected. I do not care how he got his money. In fact, nothing in his past is of concern to me. I will not begrudge him reward for his efforts."

  "I fear it is of concern to others, particularly those who have suffered losses, and claim to still suffer. Those such as Queen Micia of Allesarion, and Prince Brandon of …"

  "I don't care about Micia, Brandon and the others. Let them whine. Roslaire has letters of marque now." Ferdinand had no interest in the problems of others. Roslaire de Lyon and his money and experience were vital to his plans, and he liked the man. "I will hear no more on the matter."

  The Chancellor bowed and fell silent. Ferdinand felt the first drops of rain spatter against his face.

  Basile glanced, up shivering. "I fear we delayed at Trielas too long. The weather is changing. We will get wet." He fumbled with his horse's reins, and attempted to tug his cloak tighter to prevent any drop of rain seeping through onto his clothes.

  Ferdinand ignored him and spurred his stallion to a gallop. The wind was rising, battering the clifftop. He turned the stallion towards the city and allowed the horse to have its head. The rain stung his face and the wind tugged at his cloak, but he did not care, enjoying the speed and wildness.

  He needed the release. The court was unsettled. With threats looming from every side, the need for action burned in him, dangerous as a drug. He had sent St Andre north to geld Rupert and Chamfort. It was a risk; he did not know how far he could push his brother. But he trusted St Andre almost above any other. He needed him. The Marechal was a blade against the throat of his powerful noble houses: Chamfort, Isdorielle, Etrives, Baccasar and others. The Marechal kept them honest as a fight for succession loomed.

  As the cliff top dropped sharply downhill, Ferdinand reined his horse to a trot and turned on to one of the narrow cart tracks that crossed the cliff heights. He heard the captain bark an order, and his guards fell into formation behind him. He was prepared to be harsh with Chamfort, if Rupert forced him to it, better to strike once than to fail. He was certain St Andre had the finesse to deal with the matter. A niggle of doubt remained about the Marechal's closeness with Edouard de Chamfort. He pushed it aside. St Andre was an ambitious man. And Ferdinand was sure that while he could give him the rewards he desired, St Andre would remain loyal.

  Ahead, the track reached a paved road. Ferdinand turned to follow it down towards the city's north gate. Below him, Fourges nestled in the wide river valley. From above the city was a patchwork of pale stone buildings with dark slate roofs, dotted with patches of grass and trees. Church spires rose above the rooftops. His eye could track the length of the city's walls and see how, within them, the city was divided into segments by the River Luisine's serpentine bends. The merchant quarter with its tall, narrow houses and yards; the harbor and river front with cranes and warehouses near the river mouth, and close by, the dark mass of the Jallo, a tilting heap of wooden tenements with the occasional ancient stone chapel or building buried among the teeming, narrow alleys. But the city was dominated by the ramparts and walls of his great keep and fortress.

  He sighed and brushed a gloved hand across his face, wiping the rain away. The feeling of tension returned. He wished there was some way to avoid this afternoon's Privy Council meeting. Arnaud had been ill in the night and would not be able to attend; it would cause more talk. But the talk would be worse if he tried to postpone the meeting.

  The roads of Fourges were notoriously busy. It took some time to negotiate them and reach the city's only bridge. Beyond the bridge, a short span of road led to the moat that edged the ancient stone ramparts. A drawbridge and ancient guardhouse spanned the inky black water. This was the only entrance to the fortress for horsemen or carriages, though it was possible to enter on foot through the two great towers that stood at the east and west corners of the walls.

  Beyond the drawbridge, a narrow tunnel passed beneath the ramparts. The clatter of iron-shod hooves on cobbles became deafening inside the tunnel. Torchlight cast elongated shadows against the stone. The tunnel always gave Ferdinand a feeling for the grim, dangerous life his ancestors had faced in the gray keep's heyday. He cherished that feeling, taking strength from it.

  Emerging into the sunlight, the gray keep was the first sight he saw. A huge square tower, five stories high, built from massive blocks of pale stone dotted with narrow window slits. More than six centuries old, it was still a daunting symbol of power. To this day, tradition demanded that Kings were crowned, held court, and dispensed justice in its great hall.

  Ferdinand handed his horse to the groom. Pages were waiting with messages. But after changing his clothes, he went to Arnaud's apartments. He knew it would be noted, and talked of, and he hated to draw attention to his son's illness. But anxiety, and a need to see Arnaud, overruled good sense.

  He found Beatrice seated in the salon near the windows with a book open on her lap; she was not reading. Rain rattled against the glass. Ferdinand saw her face and came to a halt. "How is he?"

  "He's sleeping now." She picked up the book and smoothed the pages, avoiding his gaze.

  After a moment's hesitation, he said, "It was worse this time, worse than it has ever been?" It was hardly a question. He had seen Arnaud last night, watched his desperate struggle for breath, felt his agony. Even Brother Claude had not been able to ease him. "Have the physicians seen him again?"

  "They felt it was better to let him sleep," Beatrice said. Her voice was flat, a rare sign of exhaustion.

  He could see it in her face too. Helplessness made him angry. "Where is Gaynor? Why isn't she here with him?"

  "He doesn't like her to see him like this." Beatrice looked up. "It's not her fault."

  He knew that it was true, or at least in part. But he was angry. "She's his wife; her place is at his side."

  "And if he doesn't want her, what can she do?"

  "How can he not want her?" Ferdinand moved to stand by the fireplace, resting a hand on the carved stone. "We chose so carefully. I rejected a dozen other girls of better birth. I refused royalty, including Queen Micia of Allesarion's cousin, provoking her enmity for the perceived slight." Beatrice was silent. She knew all this. He slammed a fist against the stone. "And after everything, Arnaud, who gets on with everyone, does not get on with her. What is there to dislike? The girl is beautiful and good-tempered, not some scheming, ambitious creature like so many of the others."

  "It is not really about Gaynor."

  He turned towards the fire so he could not see her face. "He must have an heir, and soon. I can't change that."

  "I know. They both know what is at stake. But it makes things difficult. He is not well, and she is not forward in that way. In time, they will become friends."

  They did not have time. "How can we ease things between them?" he asked.

  "He needs a friend to talk to, someone who can break the ice between them." She mentioned no names, but he knew who she meant. The thought angered him. He turned back to face her.

  "He has friends."

  "A close friend, someone he trusts, someone Gaynor likes," she said, impatiently. "If you want to help your son, call Edouard back to court."

  "Edouard will bring Arnaud more grief than pleasure."

  "Arnaud loves him. Edouard is good for him. He does not treat him like a royal invalid. He makes him laugh and forget, and he would do anything for Arnaud."

  Ferdinand knew it was true, but it was not that simple. He did not want Rupert's dangerous son at court. He did not want him close to Arnaud. "The boy is too arrogant, and the only certain thing is that he will cause trouble."

  "Don't send for him, then." Beatrice turned back to her book.

  Outside, heavy clouds had settled over the city, already it was growing dark. He knew she could not see to read. After a moment, he crossed the room to stand by her chair. He laid a hand on her shoulder. "The council meeting begins soon. I have to go." He knew
better than to suggest she rest. "Will I have them bring you something to eat?"

  "Yes, something light." She looked up and placed her hand over his. "Will you come back?"

  "Best that I don't."

  She nodded, understanding. "I don't need to tell you, but be careful." Her smile was tired but beautiful.

  It took a moment, but he returned it. He lingered, searching for the right words, but he knew she did not need to hear them. He turned to the door and all that waited for him.

  Chapter 28

  Footmen stepped forward to open the doors as Mariette approached. She paused on the threshold, surveying the grand salon. Half of Ferdinand's court had made the long journey to celebrate Prince Rupert's birthday. No doubt most came with the absent King's blessing, but even with those promises and pledges of allegiance fresh on their lips, they were here to pay court to Chamfort, or to spy for themselves as much as for the King.

  No one was fooled, least of all Ferdinand. Mariette knew the courtiers were no more trustworthy here than they were in Fourges. Nor were they more kind. But she was ready to face them. As the roar of conversation dipped, she moved forward into a moment's silence so complete the swish of her skirts echoed across the polished wood.

  She wore midnight blue satin, finely edged with silver. The colors of Chamfort to honor Prince Rupert, but she eschewed the fashion for bare shoulders. The midnight blue satin swept up to her ears and plunged dramatically to frame a single huge diamond nestled above the cleft of her breasts, a breathtaking stone. It had arrived that afternoon nestled in a silver box engraved with the crest of Chamfort. She had chosen the silver chain herself, of a length to set the diamond where it belonged. Let Edouard see that she had accepted his gift and his apology. If she was to prove him innocent, she must keep him close. In her remaining days at Chamfort, she had to discover the truth. She must refute Jai and Mathieu's suspicions, set Chamfort above suspicion. She was sure of Edouard, only his interest in the boy left her any reason to doubt.

  Around her, the silence broke to whispers, and gradually the chatter resumed.

  Flanked by all his children, Rupert was receiving his guests in a formal manner. She moved towards him and the crowd parted before her. In part it was deference to her rank but, with Edouard and his elder brother standing with Rupert, she could almost feel the avid prickle of anticipation that rippled across the room as she approached.

  Rupert bowed, kissed her hand, and then looked up to meet her gaze. He smiled. No hint of awkwardness. She did not dare to look at Edouard, a slender and tense figure just beyond his father's left shoulder. Instead, she smiled at Eloise and the twins. Rupert kept hold of her hand.

  "Mariette, I am so pleased you came. Eloise has been grateful for your help. And I have enjoyed our time together this week. I hope that you will stay on at Chamfort when this madness is done." He leaned closer. Briefly, his gaze rested on the diamond nestled above her breasts. He smiled. "I see you liked my gift."

  Instinctively, her hand moved to cup the stone. Beyond his father, half turned away, Edouard was still as a hunting cat. Stunned by the scale of her mistake, Mariette fought an urge to jerk the chain from her neck. The rashness of such a show seemed madness now. She wondered what Rupert had intended, what he thought of her response, and if he had any idea of the confusion he had caused. He was still holding her hand.

  She flushed and stood silent. Rupert seemed disconcerted too. For a moment, the tableau froze. She could feel people turning to stare. Then Charles de Chamfort stepped forward; he glanced between his father and brother and turned back to her. The first notes of music drifted from the ballroom.

  With exquisite timing, he offered his own hand. "Might I claim the honor?"

  Despite her threat to Edouard, she had avoided Charles de Chamfort through the last week. But, like everyone, she had observed him when she could. Surrounded by the court's avid gaze, he managed the attention well and steered clear of the more dangerous elements with a statesman's grace. Cast in a dangerous role, he had nonetheless managed to make a good impression on his jaded and cynical observers. For herself, Mariette had been impressed too. It was hard to imagine how the brothers could be more different, and it was little wonder they did not get on. But she was glad to be rescued. As they moved through the first formal steps of the dance, she searched for the right words to thank him. He spoke first.

  "Be careful what games you play with my brother."

  It was so unexpected she answered without pause for thought. "And what concern is it of yours?" The arrogance of it amazed her. Would he also warn her away from his father?

  "I offer friendly advice, nothing more." When she did not answer, he glanced towards his brother. "If you want to understand Edouard, watch him fight. Or look at him now; after a week hunting brigands, he is as feral as the stable cats."

  The dance led them apart and back together. "Don't people need protecting from brigands?" she asked. A touch of hands, a turn, and she faced him again. "You surprise me, my lord. It seems you fault your brother for the very skills Chamfort celebrates."

  "No. I fault him for a notable lack of the most important of them," he said, following the steps easily, apparently cool and unruffled by the conversation. "You think me churlish, but my warning is genuine."

  "It is ridiculous to suggest that I have anything to fear from your brother." Even as she said the words, Mathieu's warning echoed in her head. But Charles de Chamfort could not share those suspicions. Against the conventions of the dance, she turned her head to watch his face.

  "That was not what I meant to suggest, quite the contrary." He did not look at her. "It seems to me you have your own penchant for dangerous games, my lady."

  The dance took them apart for a few paces. When they came together again, she had control of her temper and her tongue. "Gossips rarely speak true. I am surprised you would credit them."

  "And why would I need to listen to gossip?"

  "So you spy on your own brother?"

  "I take note of what happens at court." He laughed softly. "But, despite his faults, I trust my brother. It is hardly he who warrants my attention."

  "But I do?" She was on dangerous ground, with control of herself and the conversation fast slipping away.

  "Of course." He fell silent as the final steps of the dance drew them apart. The music ended, immediately replaced by the hum of chatter. He turned to bow over her hand. "Your return to court has roused much interest." He did not smile, and the words seemed innocently chosen. "If you have any affection for Edouard you will leave him alone. Play your games elsewhere, my lady." He bowed again and turned on his heel.

  She forced a smile and moved casually towards the doors that led out to the terrace. Cool air caressed her hot skin. Her hands were shaking. She felt shock and a sickness in the pit of her stomach. He had held a mirror to her, and the double life she had created reflected back a dark image. Charles de Chamfort had made his own judgments. No doubt his warning was meant to include his father.

  Her fingers touched the jewel, cool against the warmth of her skin.

  "A pretty bauble." It was Edouard's voice; he had approached silently and now stood close behind her. "What success. In one night, you captivate my father and my brother."

  It was not by chance there had been no sound to warn her of his approach. She could sense his temper and cursed his timing. When she turned, it struck her immediately. Charles had spoken true when he described his brother as feral. Despite the elegant clothes and jewels, Edouard did not look civilized tonight. She released the diamond and faced him. They were not alone on the terrace, but she had chosen a place among the shadows which afforded some privacy. She was not sure it would be private enough for the storm she sensed brewing in him.

  She took a breath; Charles de Chamfort's accusations lay sharp as glass in her chest. Moving closer, she slid a hand along his brother's arm. "I thought it was your gift," she said. "And so gave it license I would deny another."

  He did not s
mile. She lifted the jewel from where it nestled, swinging it over her shoulder so it landed hard against her back. "If it is not your token, I will not wear it near my heart." Even in the shadows, the pale skin where it had lain shone. Still, he did not move or speak. She stepped closer, trapped his hand in hers and drew it against the curve of her waist and up. Almost involuntarily his fingers cupped her breast; his thumb came to rest where the jewel had nestled.

  She stroked a hand along the muscles of his neck. He was tense as one of her wolfhounds before the hunt.

  "I am not here for your father," she said. "Can you doubt it?" She saw the set of his mouth and thought he would not answer. Then he sighed.

  "Promise you'll never play games with me, Mariette." It was more plea than threat. She wondered what he had heard, and from whom.

  "Never," she said, and held her breath against the sudden pain. She cursed Jai and Mathieu, not caring if it was unfair. She prayed this boy was as true as she believed him to be, and that she might know it with certainty. That she might save something from the wreckage she had wrought. "Am I forgiven?"

  He sighed against her neck, and the knife-edge tension in him seemed to ease. Beneath her hands, she could feel him shivering like a hunting hound that had been run too long and too hard.

  It prompted concern and a shiver of her own. "When did you get back?"

  "A few hours ago," his voice was different, softer.

  She moved so what light there was fell on him, and saw exhaustion in the line of his shoulders and the cautious way he settled against the stone balcony.

  "Are you hurt?"

  "No, just tired."

  "Then sit down." She led him to a stone bench, catching his arm as he staggered. "How much wine have you had? Did you eat anything before you started drinking?" She turned away. "I'll fetch something."

  "No, Mariette, I'm not hungry."

  "You must eat."

  He laughed, and reached to pull her down beside him.