Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3)

by Richard Crawford

  But it was too late. Remy was staring at the rider. Even without seeing his face he knew it was Stefan, Captain of the Duchess's guard. He understood almost immediately. A memory thrust through his exhausted, befuddled mind. He was lying beside the road in the woods, a tawny haired man stood over him. Jaime. And afterwards he had woken in the care of Duchess Mariette. Remy looked up. "She knew; all the time she knew. You all knew."

  "Only that you were in trouble, Remy."

  "She took me back to Chamfort."

  Mathieu did not answer. He glanced towards Stefan. The Captain reined his horse to a halt and dismounted, raising a hand in greeting, but he did not approach.

  "Remy, wait."

  Ignoring Mathieu's plea, Remy turned away. He headed back along the lakeshore, walking until he was too tired to go any further. Then he dropped to lie in the grass. He felt sick. The relief of sharing his secrets had changed to anger, but gradually this too passed. Remy lay staring up at the clouds. He had no right to be angry. No one had lied to him; they had kept things from him just as he had kept things from them. Why should they trust him, when he did not trust them? Everyone did what they had to, regardless of the cost to others. It was a lesson he must learn. It was foolish and naive to place your trust completely in anyone.

  He did not go back, and as the sun began to fade, Mathieu came to find him. Remy was glad. He sat up as Mathieu approached and tried to smile.

  "Stefan brought news." Mathieu settled beside him on the grass. "A few weeks ago a village in the Chamfort woods was destroyed by knights. Stefan has spoken to the villagers. Some of the survivors were able to describe one of the men. The description matches Edouard de Chamfort.

  "They are sure of this?"

  "Very sure. He murdered a young girl, Remy, a Daughter of the Mysteries."

  Remy did not want to believe it, but he had seen enough to know what the shadow knights were capable of. And he had learned there were no heroes. "So, what happens now?"

  "We will ride to Fourges. The Compact will meet, but this news changes everything, Remy. The King must be told, and we will need your help."

  "You want me to come to Fourges."

  "Yes."

  "To speak as a witness against Sieur Edouard?"

  "Yes, Remy." Mathieu was watching his face. "I'm sorry, but it is important. We'll be at your side to protect you."

  "Will she be there?"

  "Yes, Remy, the Duchess will be there."

  "And she knows about Sieur Edouard?"

  "I believe she does, Remy."

  "She always knew," Remy said bitterly.

  "No." Mathieu hesitated. "She only suspected."

  "She used me, you all did."

  "Try to remember that she helped you too, Remy." Mathieu's voice was softer as he said, "She suspected, but she didn't want it to be true. I think you can understand that."

  Remy nodded, he understood too well.

  ####

  Two days later, Remy finished packing his few possessions and carried them to the horse lines. It was early, and before saddling his horse, he went in search of Tom. He found him, helping with the milking. Remy watched for a moment. Tom sat bent forward on the low stool, his head pressed against the cow's side. Slowly Remy walked forward.

  "Tom."

  "You're going then?" Tom said, without looking up.

  "Yes. I don't want to." Remy moved to the cow's side, she swung her head round and rubbed her face against him, impatient for the milking to be done. "Maybe I'll see you again sometime."

  "Don't be stupid, Remy, you ain't going to come back here."

  "I might."

  "Why would you?"

  "To fight the shadow knights, like you."

  "You don't have to say that; it's not like it was your folks, there's no reason why you should come back."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Yeah."

  Remy turned away. He didn't know what to say. He stood waiting for Tom to speak, hoping that somehow it would be all right, but Tom remained fixed upon the milking. He kept his head buried in the cow's side. Remy walked back to the horse lines. He felt as if he had let Tom down. He did not understand how, but the feeling remained. Slowly he saddled his horse and gathered his belonging, hoping all the while that Tom might come to see them off. He did not. With a last glance to the manor, Remy mounted and waited for Mathieu, Jaime and Bruno.

  He watched as Count Guy and Quinn came forward, along with Robert, who would now command the Compact's men at Debrauche. He was a short, burly ex-soldier, of an age with Mathieu. He had served in the army and had more experience of fighting than any of them. Most importantly, Mathieu trusted him. He had been with the Compact from the beginning. As the goodbyes were completed, Mathieu turned to Robert last. It was a strange moment. Remy watched as they exchanged a few last words, and embraced. Jaime and Bruno locked arms with him in turn. They stood together a moment longer, a tight silent group. Unsettled, Remy looked away.

  Soon after, they set out, riding along the meadows beside the misty lake. At the valley head, the group drew to a halt. Beside Mathieu, Jaime and Bruno, Remy looked back at the manor and the camp clustered round it, peaceful in the morning sun.

  "Will the shadow knights come back?" He asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.

  For a while, no one replied. Remy felt awkward for voicing such a question. Then Mathieu turned to him.

  "They'll come. I don't know when, but they'll come. If they want to finish what they started in this valley, they must take Debrauche."

  "What will happen? Will the villagers be alright?" Remy heard Jaime mutter angrily, but he had to ask. Again Mathieu answered with painful honesty.

  "It will depend; the longer they have to prepare the better, more so if any of the other villages join them. But we do not know what size force the knights can muster."

  Chilled Remy looked away from the quiet valley to Mathieu. "Do you mean they might bring an army?"

  "I don't know. It's one of the many things we must find out. That's one reason why we are leaving." Mathieu spoke as if he too regretted leaving others to face the threat.

  After a few more moments, they rode on, passing over the valley edge into the dark woods. They headed southeast, deep into the ancient forest. Remy remained silent, hardly listening as Mathieu and Bruno chatted. He hated the forest; all his troubles seemed to be waiting in its dark silence. Jaime rode close by, a cold and disapproving presence.

  Chapter 52

  Charles de Chamfort rode through the streets of Chamfort town with an escort of six men at arms and two secretaries. The guards, in the blue and silver of Chamfort, rode either side of him, protectively close. He did not enjoy being surrounded by guards, but since the attack his father had insisted he had an escort whenever he left the chateau. The logic of this decree escaped Charles, he had, after all, been attacked in the chateau. But his father would not be persuaded and, since the Prince's return from Fourges, Charles strenuously avoided adding to his father's burdens.

  The size of his escort made progress through the busy town streets difficult. He reined his horse past carts piled with hay, barrows of apples and pears, water carriers and women carrying baskets of eggs and fresh baked bread. He smiled at them all and tried to ignore the slow progress. At least it allowed him time to acknowledge the bows and greetings of the townspeople. He stopped to exchange a few words with those he knew.

  He shifted in the saddle, trying to ease his aching leg. It was good to be back on his feet but, though the bruises had faded, he had not recovered his strength, sometimes he wondered if he ever would. He pushed the thought aside and concentrated on the coming meeting with town aldermen, knowing it would be awkward. Relations between chateau and town had been strained for some time. There was no doubt that Mayor Arno had been the main cause of friction, and his strange and untimely death had only unsettled matters further. His father had made it clear, and Charles agreed, this was not a problem they could afford to ignore.

 
Since returning from Fourges, his father had not been well enough to attend meetings with the town aldermen. Charles had taken on the task, reluctantly, but in some ways it had proved rewarding. Riding along the main street towards the town hall, he was pleased to receive smiles and bows of genuine respect. Despite this, he was not looking forward to the meeting. He dismounted, wincing at the twinge of pain in his leg. There were too many issues unresolved, among them the mystery of Mayor Arno's death. He turned to acknowledge the watching crowd and then climbed the steps to the council chamber, doing his best not to limp.

  The council chamber was crowded. Guild colors and devices decorated the wood paneled walls. A long table was set lengthways on a dais at one end of the room. He made his way to the chair carved with the Chamfort crest. A couple of aldermen approached him immediately. He managed to smile. The younger of the two men reached him first and offered a low bow.

  "Good day, my lord Duke." Geoffrey de Anilliac was dressed in russet velvet and wore a hat with several very long feathers that bobbed and danced in time with his movements and threatened the unwary. Distracted, Charles moved back out of range, wondering what bird had provided this display of elegance. He was sure that it had been better able to control its finery, and more suited to it than scrawny Geoffrey with his obsequious smile and shifty eyes.

  The second man was a rather different proposition, but equally unwelcome. Boniface de Chersei was clever and ambitious. Since Mayor Arno's death, he had been campaigning skillfully, and it was likely he would be elected as the new Mayor. He dressed well but without excessive display, which was as much a statement as Geoffrey's feathers. His bow was brief; he did not smile.

  "We are honored by your presence, your grace, but sorry if it means your father is still indisposed?"

  Charles refreshed his smile. "I have very much enjoyed the chance to meet with the men who help guide Chamfort's future and have gained much from the experience. It is not an honor I will be quick to relinquish."

  Geoffrey almost squeaked with pleasure. Boniface managed a grave smile and moved aside, indicating the chair with a wave of his hand. "Please be seated, your grace, we appreciate that your own recovery is not yet complete." For a moment he seemed about to ask a further question, Charles had a good idea of what that might be, he had heard versions of it for weeks, but he was saved as the bell rang to signal the start of the session. Boniface closed his mouth and retreated to his place. The business of the meeting began.

  As usual, it was longwinded and tedious. Matters that could have been dealt with in minutes dragged on as the aldermen bickered and politicked, divided by their factions. Charles concentrated with half his mind, always paying enough attention to convey the correct responses as required. The matter of Mayor Arno's death was raised, but no new evidence had been found and it was deferred whilst the investigation continued. Most of the other business did not concern him. In truth the aldermen were, for the most part, satisfied by his presence. They did not want him interfering in their business, and he was quite certain there were matters they would never raise while he was present. He was learning to anticipate the problems that would be laid before him. More often than not they related to security.

  The town had a confused attitude towards the knights of Chamfort. At any time, the aldermen might need to be reassured that they could count on the knights for protection, or reassured they need not fear their – supposed – inherent destructive capabilities. This concern had been exacerbated by the recent attacks on villages in the Chamfort woods, and somehow the actions of Edouard and St Andre's men had caused further apprehension.

  Charles had explained to the aldermen, repeatedly, that his brother had only been involved in clearing villages sheltering outlaws and rebels, acting on the instruction of the King and under the command of the Marechal St Andre. But the confusion continued. Charles was beginning to find it tedious. While it was his personal opinion that Edouard managed to embody many of the more questionable knightly traits, particularly a brutal prowess and the short-sighted belief that honor might best be secured by violence. But whatever Edouard could be blamed for, he was sure it did not include the slaughter of innocent villagers, though none of the aldermen had yet put it as bluntly. Hiding his impatience behind a polite face, he listened. When they were done, he expressed his concern and repeated his request that witnesses be found to help clear up this unfortunate confusion.

  The meeting ended soon after. Charles stopped to talk to a couple of the aldermen, but he did not tarry. The noon bell had rung some time ago, the day was passing, and he had a lot to do. Flanked by his secretaries, he made his way outside. The market place was busy with stalls selling an array of goods, everything from fruit to fabric, all laid out beneath bright awnings. It was noisy. The stallholders' hoarse cries competed with the squawk of chickens and bleating goats. The bright sunlight made his head ache.

  Charles was relieved to see a groom was bringing his horse. A couple of the men at arms were already mounted. The others moved to flank him. He had started down the steps when a ragged boy burst from the crowd, leaping up the steps to confront him. The boy stretched out a filthy hand, shoving something into Charles' fingers. He gripped it without thinking. He had a moment to notice the boy did not look like a killer, and to see the paper clutched in his other hand, then the first of the men of arms reached them. The guard grabbed the boy from behind, easily lifting him off his feet. Jerked backward, the boy gave a yelp of protest. "Please, m'lord. I 'ave a message for you."

  Charles stared at the object the boy had thrust into at him. It took him a moment to master his shock. He raised a hand to stay the guard. The boy was replaced. Charles glanced around; no one seemed to have noticed the scuffle. Closing his fingers to shelter the object in his palm, he stared at the boy.

  "You have something else for me?"

  The boy recovered quickly. He stepped forward to pass the rumpled note. Charles broke the seal and scanned it. The boy stood waiting.

  "You were given this today?"

  "Yes, my lord."

  It was only a few lines, unsigned, but the scrawled writing and abrupt tone were familiar. He folded the note briskly, annoyed for a moment then surprised by a sudden anxiety.

  "Is there anything else, my lord?"

  He had forgotten the boy. Shaking his head, he fished for a coin and tossed it to him. "Thank you." For a heartbeat silver glittered in the air, then the boy grabbed and pocketed it in one smooth movement. With a quick bow, he vanished into the crowd; he was gone, quick as a fish.

  Flanked by his guards, Charles studied the note. He kept his face carefully blank. Of late he had no taste for surprises, or mysteries, but though he hesitated this was not something he could ignore. With a sigh, he slipped the note into his pocket and sent the secretaries home. He kept the men at arms with him.

  Without explanation, he led the party back through the town towards the chateau, but after crossing the bridge, he turned to follow the river upstream beneath the limestone cliffs. Though the time the note set for the meeting had passed, he did not hurry. After a while, the cliffs fell away and the meadows opened up, rising in a long hill to the edge of the vast Chamfort woods.

  The men at arms rode silently at his back, he could sense their concern; he rarely made sudden changes to his plans. He said nothing to reassure them. When they reached the edge of the wood, he ordered them to wait and rode on alone, following a grassy ride lined with fallen logs. The woods were silent and seemed deserted. After a while, the ride turned uphill, bending away so that the entrance to the woods was out of sight. He felt a prickle of anxiety to be leaving his men at arms behind; it intensified as he saw the woods were not deserted. A dark haired man was sitting on the next fallen log. As Charles drew rein, he stood up.

  "You came," Edouard said.

  It was the sort of stupid remark that had always annoyed him. "I do have other things to do and your note..." Then he saw Edouard's face and understood his brother was not being insolen
t. Edouard really had not been sure he would come. Which was also annoying, but in a different way. He put the thought aside and studied his brother.

  He was dressed for riding, anonymous in plain leathers. A rangy black horse was tethered close by. The animal looked as if it could gallop all day. In the gloomy light, Charles could just make out the fading black eye, and the bruise along his brother's jaw line. He looked a little tired but otherwise healthy enough. Charles was somewhat reassured. "I presume this is important? I thought you were supposed to be with St Andre on the way to Etrives."

  Edouard had stayed on the far side of the log. He took a step forward. "How is he?"

  "Recovering, slowly."

  "That's good."

  "Well?"

  Edouard looked up at him and, for a moment, Charles was reminded of the younger Edouard, the little brother who had come to him when he got into really bad trouble. The moment did not last; he saw the grown Edouard, staring at him as if he wanted something, but clearly unwilling to trust him or offer an explanation.

  Suddenly Charles regretted coming. It was unsettling, being summoned in this clandestine way and, after recent events, Charles was not feeling very friendly towards his brother. He supposed Edouard had something important to say, but the very nature of the meeting suggested it would be something he did not want to hear. Discussing anything with Edouard was like swimming in treacle. His horse fidgeted and he gathered the reins, on the verge of leaving. A nagging sense of duty forced him to make the effort. He dismounted, limping across to the log and sitting down. Edouard watched him. "Your leg still pains you?" he asked.

  "It's mending, slowly.

  There was an awkward silence. Edouard said, "Did you find out who attacked you?"

  "No."

  "You know I would never…"

  "Of course." He didn't want to talk about that. "Why are you here, and in this manner, Edouard?"

  "You're right. I should be with the army. I'm in enough trouble already, I can't afford to be seen wandering around Chamfort."