"What's so funny?"
"No one else would dare fuss over me."
"Well if you don't like it, don't give me reason."
"No. From you I can bear it." He laughed again and settled back, drawing her against him. Her head came to rest naturally against his chest.
She knew she should stop, better for them both that she took him to her bed, gathering secrets from the easy words of the pillow, rather than win his trust, become his friend. But the diamond was hard and unforgiving against her spine, reminding her how she had already blundered, and that she had other, older, loyalties.
"Did it go well?" she asked. "Did you find brigands?"
He was silent for a moment. "Signs of them. But our task was to clear the villages that give them shelter, the places they can remain hidden among the ordinary folk." He threw his head back and stretched until the bones of his shoulders cracked. He settled again, drawing her close. "It's bloody work burning villages and driving off the villagers. They're poor people, even if they have shared the spoils of other's suffering." He paused for a moment, and continued with grim determination. "Ferdinand wants the brigands cleared. The villagers must learn what it will cost to shelter them."
He was no longer completely relaxed. It was clear that the raids had unsettled him, but there was no change in his breathing, and beneath her cheek, his heartbeat was steady and true. She was so close to what she needed; now was not the moment to hesitate.
"How do you know which villages aid the brigands?" A heartbeat and she risked it all. "What if you are wrong?"
He shifted against the stone, an uncomfortable movement, breaking the contact between them. Then he shrugged dismissing the idea. "Ferdinand's writ is all the proof we need."
"Then this is done in the King's name."
"Of course." The sense of ease was gone from him now. She could feel the fine-drawn tension returning. "We do not burn and kill on a whim, Mariette." There was something in his voice she could not identify.
"If you lead men, you have responsibilities, Edouard. There must always be such questions."
Before he could answer, a man emerged from the shadows. She recognized the stocky, bearded figure of Baron Joachim, St Andre's chief aide. He came forward and offered a brief bow.
"Sieur Edouard, the Marechal craves a few moments of your time."
Edouard was already on his feet. "I'll be there at once," he said.
"My lady." Joachim's bow was a mockery. She wondered if this summons was a ploy to part them. Edouard did not seem to have noticed. He watched Joachim walk away and then turned back to her.
"I'm sorry, Mariette."
She had been so close, and it was hard to keep the frustration from her voice. "Don't worry, I'll amuse myself." She smiled to show she was joking, and he bent to offer a last kiss. As he started to turn away, she said, "Ask St Andre about the villages, how they were chosen."
He stopped and half turned, looking at her as if she were mad. "Why would I? It's not my place to question his orders."
"These are your father's lands. You're a knight, Edouard, sworn to protect the weak."
"Damn it, Mariette, so is he. He would not send us to kill innocents."
She nodded. "But if you have any doubts…"
She watched him leave, feeling sick to her stomach. But there could be no turning back. At court, she had played these games, her heart impervious as a diamond set in ice. Of the lovers she had taken to hide her true purpose, none had touched her heart until this boy. And he was the one she could not afford to care for. She must win his complete trust, and break it to prove him innocent. More than his family's safety hung on the Compact's judgment.
Chapter 29
The lines of dancers dipped and turned in unison, keeping time with the music's stately beat. Ferdinand raised his hand. Beatrice mirrored him. Palm to palm, they completed a turn and moved back into line. All the while, he watched the room, scanning faces, studying the groups that formed. Of course, nothing would be planned here, but it was interesting to watch the body language. New cabals were forming, and he needed to keep track.
It was not his most pressing problem. Beneath the music, he could almost hear the whispered comments. He glanced towards the dais where the girl sat alone.
"Where is Arnaud?" he asked as Beatrice moved to stand at his shoulder.
Her smile matched his, utterly false. "I don't know. He should be here."
The steps carried them apart, keeping him silent until the movement was completed. "Damned right he should." The prickle of anger left him impatient, at odds with the stately tempo of the music. He could feel the same tension in Beatrice. She glanced over his shoulder towards the doors.
It was unlike Arnaud to be awkward. Ferdinand felt a moment's concern and pushed it aside; he would have heard word if his son had been taken ill. No, Arnaud had not suffered a relapse. But he had missed dinner and the entertainments that followed. Conspicuous by his absence, while his princess sat alone and clearly miserable.
"He's here," Beatrice said.
It was an effort not to turn in response to her urgent whisper. Instead, he tracked Arnaud's progress by the rustle of interest, the avid stares. The whispers spread like ripples from a stone dropped into a pond. He did not have to look to witness the moment Arnaud failed to greet his princess. A dozen expressions informed him.
"Damn him, why is he behaving like this?"
Beatrice's fingers closed around his. A warning he did not need. He smiled, almost grateful to be trapped by the intricate patterns of the dance and the cloying façade of court protocol. But it was impossible to ignore his son. Along with every member of the court, he could not help but watch. He knew they were all waiting for Arnaud to falter, for any sign of weakness. And it was becoming harder still to tolerate the girl's anxious glances, her frozen smile. It seemed that the marriage, on which so much depended, was a disaster.
Beatrice did what she could. She spent time with the girl. She tried to find her friends, to ease her into this new life, to teach her what she must learn, but so far without success. Whenever she could, Gaynor hid in her rooms. Beatrice had to persuade her to take a daily walk in the gardens. The girl did not enjoy hawks, hounds or hunting. Masques, poetry and music, did not seem to inspire or delight her. She was not close with her ladies. She had found no particular friends at court, though plenty sought her favor. She was young, and he understood it was hard for a new made princess to choose a confidante. But it was more than that; day by day, the girl was changing, wilting like a cut flower.
The music ended. He bowed to Beatrice. She smiled in response, immaculate and elegant as always, but there was a stiffness to her movements, and he had never seen her so tired. He watched as she turned away; then he stood for a moment as the dancers ebbed and flowed around him. The girl was still sitting alone and obviously miserable. Unable to bear it any longer Ferdinand strode to the dais and held out his hand. "Gaynor, if you would do me the honor."
Her gaze turned from his to the sea of waiting faces. She quailed visibly.
He lost patience. As the music began, he snapped, "Gaynor!"
She took his hand and rose, shivering like a whipped dog. His fingers closed tight around hers, denying her any chance of retreat. "Smile." He made it an order, too impatient to be gentle.
She smiled obediently, but she still had that fearful look.
He gripped her elbow. "Not for me. Keep your head up. Smile for them. Play your part," he hissed.
"Yes, sire."
At first, her nervousness annoyed him, but he saw she was trying and forced himself to reassure her, "Good girl. You dance very well." Gruff as the compliment was, it seemed to ease her.
"Thank you." Even her smile trembled. He could not believe she was so changed; this was not the girl they had chosen for their son. She glanced to the watching court.
"Let them watch," he said. "Let them see you are enjoying yourself."
She was a pretty girl. The music was lively. They hopped, skipp
ed and twirled with the dance. Gradually she relaxed a little, and she did indeed dance well. Seeing her like this, it was easy to remember why they had chosen her, and impossible to understand how it had turned out so badly. He smiled at her as the dance ended and bowed deeply. "Thank you," he said, and meant it. Her smile was a reward, and suddenly his impatience with her was gone.
He led her from the floor, struggling to find a subject of conversation to keep her smiling, but anxious not to seem to lecture or criticize. It was surprisingly hard. Watching her, he noticed the way her gaze turned often to Arnaud and how it lingered on him. Before they reached the dais, a young man approached and bowed.
"Majesty, might I claim the honor?"
"If the Princess is willing, Sieur Alain."
The girl nodded. A soft flush and a hint of a smile brought life back to her face, and if she did not look happy, at least she no longer looked scared. He watched as she joined the lines of dancers. Arnaud was seated on the far side of the room among a small group playing cards. Stubbornly, or so it seemed, paying no attention to his Princess.
Ferdinand looked for Beatrice. He knew Sieur Alain's intervention was her doing. Gaynor was dancing and even smiling a little, but even as he watched, she looked to Arnaud. As she looked to his son, Ferdinand saw the longing in her eyes.
"Young love," said a soft voice at his shoulder. "So sad when it is one-sided."
He turned to face Diane de Baccasar, frowning though he knew it would make no difference. She knew she had license. They had grown up together, and Diane was afraid of no one. It was refreshing, sometimes, and they had an understanding. She would speak bluntly and he would allow it. When they were children, she had blacked Rupert's eye. Ferdinand supposed they had been friends, or at least allies, from that day.
Now she was watching Gaynor, her expression amused and calculating. "Of course, she is not what he needs." She glanced sideways at him. "And if she is not with child soon…"
There was no one within earshot. "I don't need reminding."
"No. You need to act." She smiled, but her eyes held a warning. "And soon."
"You overstep, Diane."
"I offer a friend's warning," she said, a snap of impatience in her voice. "This is no time to be distracted. There are matters beyond the court that require your attention."
He turned and met her unforgiving glare. Ten years a widow and she still wore black though the fabrics were sumptuous and she did not stint on jewels. He smiled wryly; the grieving widow, it was a ridiculous show of devotion, given the rumors. Rumors, it was popularly believed, that she had killed her husband.
But whatever her faults, Diane had a statesman's brain, and a trading web larger than any Fourges merchant. She had the best foreign contacts and informants. He wondered what she was offering him, and what she required in return.
Petite, lean and elegant as one of her whippets, her skin was traced with fine lines, her silver gray hair gathered beneath a pearl edged cap. Formidable was the only word that described her. Daughter to the fourth Montmercy Duke, she had eloped with and married Count Andre de Baccasar against her family's express wish.
It had turned out to be a shrewd match; together they had doubled Baccasar's holdings and wealth. Diane had given the Count two sons; the eldest, Piers, was as ruthless as his mother, but not nearly as clever; the second, Bertran, a weakling never seen at court. After his birth, so they said, Diane turned against her husband. She returned to court and found amusement in a lover's arms. Not so unusual, though it was strange that the identity of her lover had never been discovered. But it had ended badly when she fell pregnant. The one unforgivable sin. Though Andre de Baccasar stood by her, everyone believed her last children, twins, a boy and a girl, were not his.
It was an old scandal, but typical of Diane to flout it by wearing black. No doubt she found some advantage in it. He was not foolish enough to trust her completely. And there were limits to the license he would allow.
"We're not talking of a stallion and a broodmare," he said.
"More's the pity." She glanced sideways, appraising him. "But I did not come to speak about how to warm your son's marriage bed."
"What, then?"
"The unrest in the great woods through Chamfort, Elourrin and Broudogne grows worse."
"Nothing more than brigands," he said sharply. "Why should it concern you what happens beyond Baccasar?"
Unusually, she hesitated, choosing her words. "The roads are unsafe. If it continues, trade will be affected."
"That is your interest?" He knew his tone did not invite confidences, but he had no time for this now. "Then do not worry. It is true Rupert and the Barons have been slow to deal with this, but St Andre has gone north. He will see it is taken care of."
He turned and she met his gaze, unflinching. But, however fearless, she was also clever enough to take care how far she pushed.
"I'm glad to hear it," she said. "Fear breeds unrest, and once it takes hold, it spreads like a forest fire. If it is not dealt with the towns will want to take up arms and form militia. These things can quickly get out of hand."
"Do not worry; I will hold to account any overlord who allows outbreaks of lawlessness to continue unchecked within their demesne, and if others suffer for their neglect, those responsible will pay the price."
It silenced her for a moment, as he had intended.
When she spoke, it was softly and with a measure more respect. "And who will identify these failures?"
"St Andre."
"A heavy burden for the Marechal, if he is required to indict your most powerful subjects."
He did not answer, and another silence developed. On the dance floor, Sieur Alain bowed to Gaynor, and stayed by her side as the dance ended. Arnaud did not appear to notice, though Ferdinand could only see his profile.
"You place great trust in the Marechal," Diane said. The words held the slightest hint of a question.
"He has earned that trust," he spoke sharply, warning her off.
A practiced courtier, she took the hint and moved on smoothly. Her gaze returned to Gaynor. "Get him back in her bed. Whatever it takes."
It had been ridiculous to hope no one had noticed, with a dozen ladies in waiting and grooms of the chamber, with guards and maids to report the couple's every movement. He cursed softly.
"He bears everything asked of him, but this. What can I do?"
Diane glanced up at him, not a hint of sympathy in her face. "Before all else, he is a prince; remind him of it."
####
The next morning, Ferdinand went to Beatrice. One glance at his face and her ladies dropped into curtsies and hurried to leave them alone.
"You expect Arnaud," he said, knowing that she did.
"Soon," she said. "You want to talk to him?"
He heard her anxiety and steeled himself. "I can leave it no longer. The whole court knows that he no longer goes to her bed."
Beatrice smoothed her skirts; it was as close as she came to showing her anxiety. "It is our mistake," she said.
"Perhaps, in part." He could allow her that much. "But he has a duty."
Her head came up. "That is what you will say to him?"
"Duty. I demand it of others. Should I not expect it from my son?" He strode to the window, staring down at the gardens so he did not have to look at her face. "We chose her, and perhaps the choice is not to his liking. That is no excuse for his behavior. It is not as if the girl is ugly or misshapen, full of spite or ambition." He turned back. "She is in love with him. I saw it last night." It was almost an accusation.
Beatrice nodded. "Since the day they met," she said. "Or very soon after. It was why I chose her for him."
"It does not make any difference."
"Except, perhaps…" Beatrice stood up and came to his side. "What if it is a burden to him?"
"Then it is a burden he should bear with good grace!"
She turned away. Whatever answer she would have given was forgotten as Arnaud arrived.
Ferdinand studied his son. Arnaud moved slowly but steadily, as if determined to conceal the effort each step cost him. His brown hair was cut short, against the fashion among the court's young men, and easier to manage through fever and sickness. Beneath pale skin, his bones were sharp-edged. There was no color to him. Ferdinand wondered if it was possible his son could father a child. The treacherous thought brought a cramping pain.
Beatrice had returned to her seat. Arnaud went to kiss her cheek. When he turned, there was a spark of anger in his gaze. He bowed with stiff control.
"Father."
"Arnaud, are you well?" It came out more abruptly than he intended. Only Arnaud could make him so awkward.
"Yes, thank you, Father."
He had not given his son leave to sit. Arnaud remained standing by his mother's chair.
"You missed dinner last night; I thought there might be a reason."
Arnaud glanced away. "I was tired. I did not think you would mind."
"And your Princess, did you think of her?" There was no point delaying. He had put this off too long already. "Do you think of her at all?"
"I think of her," Arnaud said. His voice held a note of resentment. He started to turn away, but Beatrice caught his hand.
"Arnaud, we're worried."
Arnaud halted, still half turned away. "Gaynor will be all right when she settles and finds friends at court."
"Don't be a fool." Ferdinand's attempt at patience unraveled. "This is not about whether Gaynor is happy. Though how you could think she ever could be happy when daily you spurn and shame her is beyond me. Your mother has tried to speak to you; you know what this is about."
"Succession. A Vallentin heir." Arnaud shifted, his thin frame hunched slightly in anger or pain. "You have heirs aplenty in your brother and his sons. Why do you put this on me?"
"You know the matter of succession is not that simple."
"Is that my fault too?" There was an unfamiliar set to Arnaud's mouth, a hint of bitterness in his voice.
"None of this is your fault…" Beatrice started to rise. Ferdinand raised a hand to silence her.
Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3) Page 26