"Go to the manor," Remy urged. He could see others making their way to the house. It seemed a long way off. Soon Remy's shoulders and back ached with the awkward burden. It was hard to avoid the fighting, and a few times horses flashed by almost running them down. The girls screamed and sobbed, clutching at their brother and unbalancing him.
They staggered on, in desperate silence, until they reached the manor. Tom led them to where the injured were laid, interspersed with the aged and young. Remy helped Tom to set his grandmother down near the barn. He watched helplessly as Tom bent over her. The girls stood close by, sobbing, as he tried to rouse the old woman.
"I don't know if she's still alive?" He looked to Remy.
"Is she breathing?"
Bending close, Tom looked for a sign. Unhappily, Remy waited. As Tom remained bent over the old woman, Remy could stand it no longer.
"Tom I must go back."
Tom nodded, with his back still turned. Remy thought he might be crying. Quickly he reached down and grasped the boy's shoulder. Tom looked up and gripped his hand. For a moment, Remy stood awkwardly, uncertain what to do
"Thanks for helping us, Remy, but I don't know what to do?"
"Find one of the women, they will know. I must go." As soon as Tom let go of his hand, Remy turned away. He did not know where he was going, but he was relieved to be away from the old woman. He thought she might already be dead. Guiltily he glanced back but did not pause. He felt sorry for Tom, but he did not know how to help him, and he could not bear the sight of his confused grief.
The village blazed. It was nearly empty now, and the fighting seemed to be concentrated at the far end. Realizing his sword still lay in the street, Remy made his way cautiously back to where he had lost it. This end of the village was deserted, except for the villagers' bodies. As Remy walked by the crumbling houses, he tried not to see the death around him. Finding the sword, he picked it up, fixed it firmly in his hand, and started back towards the fighting.
As he drew nearer to the battle, his pace slowed. The fight had been driven to the outskirts of the village. It looked as though the defenders were barely holding. Clear of the houses, mounted men skirmished. The men of the Compact faced the shadow knights. The villagers tried to help, but they were poorly armed and of little use.
Centerpiece to it all was a private battle between two mounted combatants. Recognizing Jaime, riding a tall bay horse, Remy crept into the shelter of an old tree and watched. Among the swirling smoke, the fighting raged all around, filling the air with the shouts and thunder of battle.
Oblivious to it all, Jaime and his opponent fought as if in a separate place. Above the crested necks of their horses, the riders moved in uncompromising, immaculate form, trading vicious swinging blows almost casually. Remy thought any one of those blows had the force to kill.
Matched, like partners in an intricate dance, the horses leaped and pivoted in response to their rider's commands. The men were hardly more than feet apart, their eyes locked above the horses' flying manes. Jaime's teeth were bared in a grimace of effort. The dark haired man opposing him was featureless behind his helm.
Shocked Remy realized that Jaime was hard-pressed; his opponent was too good. Distracted, Remy edged around the tree. He peered closer, watching the fight with rapt attention. For a moment, the two combatants broke apart. Then Jaime's opponent spurred his horse. The animal pivoted, turning on its haunches, the horse leaped forward. The rider moved with it effortlessly. His sword flashed down, driven by the horse's power. Remy gasped, the move was familiar. He thought he had seen it at Chamfort.
Before he could work out when he had seen the move, he heard the sound of galloping horses. The fighting paused, and then resumed frantically. Unaware, intent on Jaime's desperate fight, Remy froze. With a sense of déjà vu, he saw the knight swing his horse hard against Jaime's, then drop low in the saddle, passing beneath Jaime's arcing swing. Remy watched the finale of a move there was no forgetting. He had seen it perfected on the Chamfort training grounds. With arrogant grace, the raider slipped his sword past Jaime's guard. Wrenching aside Jaime sought to avoid the blade, but it was too late.
Remy stared in fascinated horror as Jaime fell, slipping from his saddle to the ground. Swinging his horse away, the knight raised his sword and shouted to the men nearest him. The call spread among the shadow knights. At the knight's signal, they wheeled their horses, forming together to break clear of the defenders. In a moment, they were galloping away from the village.
As they disappeared, Mathieu, followed by the Count and their men, arrived in a swirl of horses and dust. For minutes there was frantic confusion, some defenders started after the shadow knights, but they were called back. An argument broke out as they demanded to be allowed to give chase. Mathieu insisted the risk was too great.
Gradually a shocked calm descended. Men stared around at the dead and injured. Others moved through the burning and wrecked village. In the center of it all Bruno knelt by Jaime's body. Remy went to his side, thinking to help. Jaime was conscious. He looked up at Remy's and whispered viciously.
"Old friends huh, boy?" said Jaime.
"I... I don't know what you mean."
Jaime muttered a curse, gritting his teeth against the pain.
Ordered away by Bruno, with curt instructions to be useful, Remy reported to one of Mathieu's men. He was sent to help look for casualties. His task was to check the bodies strewn through the village and see if any were alive and in need of aid. As he walked among the destruction, Remy steeled himself to bend by the first body. One glance showed him, the man's face and skull were smashed beyond recognition.
In a daze, Remy moved toward the next body. He glanced around, although others were nearby checking as he was, he felt frightened as if he was trapped in the desolate village alone with the dead. He moved past two more bodies, men, their faces traced with patterns of blood their eyes still and empty. As his gaze swept hurriedly on towards the next body, he froze. This body was slender and small, a girl, brown hair tangled across her back. He could see the blood but not the wound. He could not bear to look, and desperately he sought for someone to help. He saw Mathieu ahead of him; he was helping to lift a man on to a rough stretcher.
Hurrying towards him, eyes averted from the bodies, Remy tripped. He looked down and gave a yelp of terror, scrambling backward in horror. He recognized the large man lying lifeless before him, the scarred face with its half ear and broad, powerful shoulders; it was Tom's father, and beyond the reach of his lifeless outstretched fingers, lay his wife. They were just feet apart, staring down at them Remy wondered what had happened. A broken pitchfork lay nearby. Thomas held an axe, his powerful hand still fisted round the haft. Had he been defending her, or had she stood to fight at his side? Remy could not see her face, but he remembered her smiling in welcome, pressing him to eat more, scolding her husband for teasing him.
He did not know how long he stood staring down at them, but the next he knew was a gentle touch to his shoulder. Looking up he saw Mathieu looking at him in concern. Remy realized he was crying.
"What is it, lad?"
The tears would not stop. He gazed at Mathieu and then back to the bodies at their feet, hoping that he might somehow be mistaken. When he tried to speak his voice broke to sobs. He tried hard to gulp the tears back until his throat ached with it. From a distance, he heard Mathieu repeat his anxious enquiry. He managed to force the words out.
"Tom's parents."
Mathieu followed his gaze to the bodies and then pulled him away.
"It's all right, Remy. I'm sorry, you shouldn't be here seeing this."
"It's his Ma and Da, they're dead. I can't tell him, Mathieu, someone else will have to tell him, I can't. Please, Mathieu, I can't."
Wrapping an arm around his shoulders, Mathieu led him away from the village. Remy kept repeating the words like a prayer, after all that had happened; the horror of Simon's death and Father Peter's, it was the suffering of Tom and his
sisters that finally breached his self-centered terror. Finally, he felt pity and anger for someone else, and it was worse, so much worse. He could not understand how something so horrible could happen to such kind, ordinary people. They had done nothing to deserve such a brutal death.
He had thought he understood how things worked. The strong defended the weak. That was why he had gone to Chamfort. But after what he had seen, nothing made sense.
Chapter 43
Mariette came to a halt outside the grand salon. She reached to smooth her apricot silk gown. It was an unfamiliar gesture, a sign of nerves; she knew the fall of the gown was immaculate. About to face another evening in the watchful and malicious society of the court, she had a desperate wish to be somewhere else. In the last weeks at court, she had played the game, listening to the latest gossip without adding to it herself. She had also plumbed beneath the surface, sifting the rumors, gauging the swift changing flux of allegiances that made up Ferdinand's court.
Tonight, beneath the gilt mirrors and pale silks of the grand salon, the court gathered in small, intimate groups. Some were playing cards, others making music. A small select group had formed around the Count de Escarel. As Mariette passed, she heard the murmur of his voice declaiming and then laughter. She guessed the subject of their amusement and moved on without hurrying. Queen Beatrice was playing cards surrounded by a group that included her son's wife, the Princess Gaynor. For a moment Mariette studied the Princess, although pale and a little reserved, she had an undoubted natural beauty. It was rumored she still failed to attract her husband's affection. Mariette wondered what the girl could have done to displease the normally good-natured Arnaud. The Prince was not present, nor was the King.
After pausing for a moment, Mariette moved on. Some of the younger courtiers were laughing at the far end of the salon. She hesitated. A friend called out, urging her to join the group gathered around a young man with a lute. Before she could answer a voice, soft with the lilt of a foreign tongue, spoke close to her ear.
"Sweet Duchess, we have been parted too long."
Mariette recognized the voice at once. A shiver slid down her spine. "Roslaire?" She turned slowly. Before she could say anything more, Roslaire de Lyon caught her hand and, with a presumption no other would dare, pressed his lips to her palm. Unable to resist him, she laughed. It was a mistake. Holding tight to her hand, he pulled her with him. She resisted for a moment, then giving in she followed him.
Tugged to a halt in a hidden corner, beyond the sight of prying eyes, she had a breathless moment to regroup. Instead, she found herself staring at him. He was tall; her head was level with his chest. Thick golden curls fell to his shoulders, a sapphire glinted in one ear; his eyes were gray and dark as the sky before a storm. He was wearing midnight blue silk taffeta and snowy lace, with rings and jewels worth a fortune. But the hand that gripped hers was callused, the skin tanned. She knew that beneath the silk his back was scarred. Roslaire de Lyon was a sea prince, a merchant, a corsair; his past was a mystery, and he made sure it stayed that way. Everyone told a different story about him. Whatever his past, he had the favor of the King now. He was rich, powerful and dangerous.
As she stared, he leaned close to claim a lover's greeting. Caught off guard, she did not prevent him. His lips were sweet, in his hair a trace of exotic perfume. Finally, warned to dignity by the distant hum of chatter, she pushed him away.
"So, Roslaire. When did you arrive back?" Her voice was almost normal.
"This morning, and how overjoyed I am to find you at court, sweet Duchess. I have perfumes, spices, silks and jewels, every exotic luxury. If you command it, they are all yours." His fingers drifted over her neck. "In return for an appropriate and well deserved reward."
Mariette laughed softly, struggling against the extravagance of him. "And what reward will you claim?"
With one hand, he pulled her close. His lips claimed their reward. Mariette allowed the kiss to last a moment longer, and then pushed him away. She tried to be severe. "Roslaire there is enough gossip about me already."
He smiled. A quirk of his lips and then he laughed. There was an edge to the laughter. He moved closer. The narrow closet allowed her no retreat. Mariette turned her face aside, and his lips brushed her hair. He stopped and moved back a little. "Let them talk, it can only improve my reputation." His smile was lazy and predatory. "Let them see the sea dog still interests the Duchess. And let them admire your cosmopolitan tastes." His gaze caressed her. "I hear he has potential, this boy, the Prince's son, but why aim so low my love?"
"You are well informed," she said, playing for time. He was not a man to toy with.
"Dock side gossip is always the best."
"So, Roslaire, what tales do you tell?" She shrugged free of his arms. "Do you boast?" She pushed him away.
He laughed, releasing her but moving to bar her way. "Sweet Duchess." His smile was evil. "I've been too long at sea. I'm no match for you, be kind."
"Kind, I'll be kind, Roslaire, if you will be civil."
"Mariette, have pity, you shame me. I would never gossip, or boast. But you cannot expect me to match this paragon of chivalry. How can I, when your new love is a Prince's son and trained to such useless show? My talents are more practical." His hand moved back to her waist. "Anyway, how can you scold, when my pride is injured? Replaced by a mere boy, what will people say?"
"You would know, apparently." She pushed him away again. "You've been gone a season, Roslaire, surely you did not think I would sit pining? Or expect that you would."
He showed his teeth in that strange half smile. "No why would you?" He stepped back. "A Prince's son and a hero. I must meet this paragon and assess his talents for myself."
His gaze held hers and for a moment time spiraled. He had been at court when she returned from Montmercy, wild with anger and grief. When she had chosen a role to play, he had been the perfect partner. The silence lengthened, and his eyes darkened. She spoke quickly. "He is not at court."
"No. I hear the King does not like him, and no wonder." The silky lilt of his voice gave warning and threat. His gaze slid from her face. "I think that I may not like him either."
"Roslaire, this jealousy is ridiculous," she said, but her breath caught. He brought an edge of danger to everything he touched. The thought came to her, dangerous and seductive; he would not scruple to undertake any task, she might ask him anything.
"Ridiculous." His heavy gaze swept downwards, while his fingers slowly traced the bare line of her shoulder. He moved, and crushed between them apricot silk whispered in protest. The noise of the court faded. "Sweet Duchess, may I not admire you?"
"Do as you will, Roslaire." Freeing a hand, she pressed her palm to his chest above the beat of his heart. His breath brushed her face as his lips closed upon hers. She almost surrendered, then a memory ghosted between them, and she pressed him away.
A sigh of displeasure before he said, "I must meet this boy."
"No, it is only that I'm tired, you are too much of a surprise. I am sure there are many keen to welcome you." Shaken by a double temptation, she watched as he turned away. Golden curls glinted soft in the light, but in profile, the set of his mouth showed the strength that made him first among the merchant captains so beloved of the King and city. Not a safe man to cross. But a man who had many friends and a network of contacts. A man she could use.
"Wait." One word was enough. He was used to success.
"Sweet Duchess." He turned back, smiling. "Yours is the only welcome I want."
####
It was after midday when Mariette came to the great hall. The building, a grim rectangle of gray stone, was the oldest in the palace. For centuries, as long as there had been Kings in Fourges, the hall had been a symbol of their power. It was where the King gave audience, heard petitions and, in extraordinary circumstances, dispensed personal justice.
The bronze doors were open, flanked by rows of guards in the royal colors of crimson and black. Mariette walke
d between them, crossing stone slabs worn to grooves by the passage of feet. Vast tapestries, portraying mythical scenes and glittering with gold and silver thread, hung from the walls. High above, carved wooden beams spanned the vast ceiling. Braziers warmed the air. The sun glimmered through the long, narrow windows. The hall was packed. At the far end, beneath the canopy of state, the King sat on a raised dais. The Chancellor stood at his side, beyond him a table with the secretaries. Chairs were set below the dais for the council of twelve, which consisted of Valderon's most senior nobles.
Mariette held a place on the council, by right of her titles of Montmercy and Broudogne. Today a client of hers from Broudogne was to petition the King, and she had promised to be present and, if necessary, to intercede on his behalf. She made her way slowly forward, studying the crowd and gauging the mood. Courtiers stood in groups, whispering and watching. Scribes hurried back and forth. In the background, servants and pages circulated in a continuous stream. The King was notoriously short tempered on these occasions. The petitioners, not used to the habit and splendor of the court, were easily identified as they stood waiting apprehensively.
It was always the same, a solid press of people. Courtiers stood around, watching with malicious interest, hoping to witnesses someone's misfortune, or waiting for an opportunity to catch the King's eye. The petitioners were tense, desperate and ignored; often they had waited weeks for the chance to present their case.
As Mariette approached the dais, she noticed the crowd pushing forward eagerly. Something was happening. The dais was surrounded by the scarlet and black jackets of the king's guard and the glitter of their pikes. She strained to see what was attracting so much attention and caught a glimpse of an old man kneeling before the King. It seemed the audience had already started, and she had missed the first exchanges. Then the old man spoke again.
Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3) Page 41