Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3)

by Richard Crawford

  Silenced, Edouard handed her his own fine shirt, breeches and jacket.

  "They'll be dry before bedtime." She promised. "I've brought mulled wine, but you can bring it back to the common room if you like, it's warmer there. I'll speak to Ma, she won't mind."

  He shook his head, happy to keep out of sight. "I'll be fine here, thank you." The woman named Alice had not been welcoming; if he went inside, she'd likely make a fuss and that would draw attention. He could not risk being recognized. To distract the girl, he busied himself pouring. Lifting the beaker, he savored the aroma and then took a mouthful. "'Saint of mercy, that's strong."

  She laughed. "Will that do to warm you?"

  "What's in it?"

  "A secret brew of my father's. No one stays cold and miserable at the Swan."

  "Nor upright or conscious for long, I'd wager." It was delicious, but he eyed the cup doubtfully. "I need to start early tomorrow."

  "I promise you'll sleep it off long before morning. Father knows his business."

  He took another swig, smiling despite himself. "And does he approve of you undressing strange men in the barn?"

  "Oh, I wouldn't say you were that strange." She started for the door, calling over her shoulder, "Don't worry he doesn't know about the undressing."

  It was not the most reassuring answer, but she was gone before he could protest. He found a length of twine to hold the trousers up, and then settled in the hay, laying his sword close by. The wine slid easily down his throat. It warmed him through. He had meant to go easy, but after a while it did not seem to matter. Edouard swallowed the last dregs regretfully. He set the beaker aside and lay back to wait the night out.

  When he woke, she was sitting on the chest watching him. His clothes were stacked in a neat pile beside her.

  "So, what trouble has you hiding out in the barn?"

  "What?" Shocked that he had fallen asleep, Edouard glanced around the barn. The black was dozing upright in his stall, and everything seemed as he had left it. He could not believe he had fallen asleep, or that he had not woken the moment she returned. He slept lightly at the best of times, and it was weeks since he had managed more than an hour or two before the nightmares woke him.

  "You're in some kind of trouble. I've seen men with something to hide before."

  He stared at her. "And you found it wise to fraternize with them?"

  "You're trustworthy enough. I can tell."

  "Thank you," he said, struggling to keep up with her. "But there are plenty who would not agree. Perhaps you could vouch for me." He could not believe he was joking like this. He shivered, remembering all that was at stake.

  She was watching him closely, but her tone was light as she said, "And what would the nature of this supposed untrustworthiness be?"

  "Ah, I hardly know you well enough." He managed to smile. "To share my darkest secrets."

  "Tell me something else then. Tell me about the great city of Fourges, and the King's court, tell me about his knights."

  "Why do you want to know?"

  "Because I've never seen any of it and I like to dream. Please."

  He stared at her for a moment, but she was not mocking him and he thought her curiosity was innocent enough. Hesitantly he began to tell her stories. Much later, she laughed as he told of the joust when his horse's girth broke, and the time when someone filled the quintain with water and feathers, and the day Angelo fixed it so that all his opponents' bridles would fall apart. It was easy to talk to her, just like talking to Angelo or Arnaud. The thought surprised him.

  "You're not much of a knight then," she said grinning.

  She had a way of cutting close. He plucked the wine beaker from the hay and rose to set it back on the tray. "I'm not a knight." She sensed the change at once, and her laughter was gone. She waited in silence. It seemed natural to admit. "I was."

  "What happened?"

  "A misunderstanding. A terrible misunderstanding." He stopped speaking, for an insane moment, he had been ready to confide some of the story to her. Shaken, he stood there, wondering if it was just the wine making him so foolish. But there was something about this girl; she made him feel safe. She slipped from the chest and came forward. He wanted to tell her everything, for some reason, it seemed important she know who and what he was. Before she reached him, a shrill call pierced the air.

  "Cat! Cat, where are you?"

  "Goats bollocks." The girl jumped and spun round. "It's Ma calling for me. I must go. Quick, get changed." She threw the clothes at him.

  Edouard started towards the stall, but she caught his arm. "We've no time just do it. I won't look."

  She turned away. As he hesitated, she laughed. "I've no interest in looking. But I'm in enough trouble already without keeping Ma waiting. Will you please get on with it!"

  He had let the trousers drop and stripped off the shirt when the barn door swung open. He looked up and saw the angry woman standing there, huge arms akimbo, her face flushing as she opened her mouth in a wordless shout. Edouard started to laugh; perhaps it was the wine, but the situation was too ridiculous. Then, like a hound to the scent, the woman gave tongue.

  "Mario!" No longer wordless, her voice was loud and shrill. "Mario."

  The girl hurried towards her. "Ma, there's no need to make a fuss."

  Edouard kicked at the trousers, caught obstinately round his ankles, and skipped desperately into his own.

  "Ma, stop it. Do you want everyone out here?"

  It seemed she did not; the woman closed her mouth stifling another shriek. Finally, she seemed ready to listen to her daughter. But it was too late. Edouard saw the innkeeper at the door, the man did not look good-humored anymore, nor did the four huge men who stood behind him. They came forward slowly as Edouard struggled into his shirt. The girl called out, trying to stop them, but her father ignored her.

  He growled. "I offer you hospitality, and you think to take advantage of my daughter? I'll teach you a lesson you'll not forget."

  "Da, no." The girl hurried after him and grabbed his arm. He stopped as she said, "It's not what it looks like."

  The four men did not stop. Edouard watched them; his sword lay close to hand, but he did not touch it. They were country oafs, and he had little fear they could do him harm. He wondered instead how best to avoid hurting them whilst the girl explained the mistake. He was mildly annoyed now. His dubious reputation was taking another beating.

  The first oaf lumbered forward and swung a huge fist towards his head. Edouard stepped aside and jabbed a punch to the man's blubbery gut. With a wheezing groan, the man doubled to his knees and stayed there. It did not stop the other three. They came on relentlessly. Edouard realized that it had perhaps been a mistake to give in to temper and throw the first punch.

  The oafs looked angry. There was only one person who could stop this now. He kept half his attention on the lumbering oafs, approaching more cautiously now, and looked to where the girl stood clutching her father's arm.

  "Why would you think so little of my good sense?" she asked, sounding cross. "Do you think I would spread my legs for any pretty lordling?" She was cross, and Edouard saw that her father knew it; he began to look unsure.

  "What were you doing, then, Cat?"

  "Drying his clothes."

  "You've been out here hours."

  "Is talking a crime?"

  "He's not touched you? Tell me if he has, it's no disgrace to you."

  "No. Please, Da, what will convince you, must I swear it on Rosa's grave?" The words brought a sudden silence. The innkeeper stared at his daughter. She stared back. The anger was gone. She seemed desperately close to tears.

  Distracted by her distress, Edouard started towards her thinking he could somehow make things right. He paid the oafs scant attention, side stepping a lumbering kick from the closest. His attention was on the girl. He wondered if it was his fault, she was so upset. At first, she had taken it all as a joke, but now something had changed.

  A fist loomed;
Edouard ducked a heartbeat too late to avoid the oaf's haymaker. The ham-sized fist caught him on the side of his head. The force of the blow lifted him off his feet. He flew across the barn, unhindered, until he hit a post and slid gracelessly to the floor. The last thing he heard was the girl's furious voice. He hoped she was not angry with him.

  Edouard woke to a cold wetness cloth across the left side of his face. He pushed it away and found that his left eye was swollen shut. He jerked upright, and his head collided painfully with a basin. The upended basin showered cold water across his chest; shocked awake he sat still as the barn spun before his eyes. A thumping pain in his head made his stomach heave.

  Close by someone sighed. "And I went to so much trouble to get those clothes dry."

  After a moment, he recognized the voice. He remembered the girl, and the fight. It seemed like a good idea to stand up. He tried and failed to get to his feet.

  "It's all right they've gone." Kneeling by his side, Cat retrieved the basin and cloth. She pushed him back down. "Here let me finish. I've a lotion for the bruise"

  He sat quietly as she cleaned the blood from his face and gently dabbed the lotion around his bruised eye. He watched her with his good eye; she was so close he would have been able to count her freckles, except for intermittent bouts of double vision. Blinking, he looked at her mouth and the fall of her hair. Loose strands lay along her neck; he followed them down, his gaze drawn on beyond the soft hollow of her throat. Quickly he looked up, and found his eye fixed by a pair of green eyes.

  "What are you looking at?"

  "Um, nothing." He let his gaze drift up towards the dusty rafters.

  "After what just happened, you surely are mad."

  "How do you do that?"

  "What?"

  "Know what I'm thinking?"

  "That time it was pretty easy." Seeing his face, she laughed. "It's this thing I can do." After a moment she qualified, "Sometimes, with some people. My sister had the real gift."

  "Your sister had a gift. What sort of gift?"

  "It doesn't matter." Her mouth went tight. She shook her head dismissing the subject. "Da is sorry, very sorry, for what happened. It was Ma's fault really, but after everything they've been through." She stopped abruptly. "Still, you'll live, no permanent damage, though you have matching bruises now." She studied him, musing. "Someone should teach you how to take care of yourself, or at least to stay out of trouble."

  "What?" He knew she was teasing, but it stung his pride.

  She stood up and offered him a hand to rise. "The bruises and the scars. You won't make old bones if you carry on..." As Edouard caught her hand, she gave a gasp and jerked hers away.

  Edouard fell back, landing on the barn floor with a thump. Where she had touched him a strange feeling tingled along his arm, and for a moment, the headache was gone. He sat up. Cat was staring at him, eyes wide with fright.

  "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..." He didn't know what he had done, but she looked so upset. He scrambled to his feet and backed away, trying to reassure her. "I'm all right." His head ached like hell again, and he couldn't see out of his left eye, but he managed a grin. "Really."

  She had backed away too, still staring at him. She waved to a nest of blankets among the hay. "We still don't have any rooms, but I tried to make a bed for you. It's dry at least and pretty warm." She moved towards the barn door glancing over her shoulder.

  He watched her go, wishing she would stay. Feeling sorry for himself, Edouard limped towards the black's stall. Cat had reached the door. "I checked your horse," she said. "He's fine and the poultice is still in place."

  He hesitated and then turned to the nest of blankets, trusting her. By the door, Cat smiled as if she had read his mind. She watched as he dropped into the hay and settled, pulling the blanket around him.

  "There, every comfort." Turning to leave, she paused. "I'm sorry about what happened, so is my father, truly."

  He really didn't want her to go. "Who's Rosa?" The question came from nowhere. He knew at once it was the wrong one.

  "My sister." She turned away. "She's dead."

  "Cat." He wanted to tell her he was sorry, but something in her face stopped him.

  She managed a smile. "I know. Sleep well, you're safe here."

  Even though it wasn't true, he smiled back at her, and against all sense, he did sleep.

  Early the next morning Edouard took his horse down to the village forge. The blacksmith gave him a strange look, but fitted the black with a new shoe quickly and competently. Edouard led the horse back towards the inn to collect his tack and saddlebags; the black seemed sound enough, but to be sure Edouard trotted him for a few paces. The horse stepped out perfectly.

  Back at the inn, he tacked the horse up and gathered his belongings. The rain had stopped. A few wispy clouds scudded across a blue sky, but it promised to be a nice day. He kept thinking about the girl. It was ridiculous; she was an innkeeper's daughter. He would never see her again. But the strange feeling persisted. She had made him feel safe, and nobody had ever made him feel like that. He told himself it must be too many knocks on the head, or the strange wine her father had brewed. He stood for a moment before mounting. He had settled with the innkeeper the night before, there was really no reason to go into the inn. He didn't hear her approach, and jumped like a startled rabbit when she spoke.

  "You weren't going to say goodbye?"

  He turned to face her. "I didn't know whether I'd be welcome."

  "I told you, Da was sorry, but I suppose it's not surprising if you're nervous."

  "I'm not …"

  "You're so easy." She was grinning, and he could not help grinning back. She reached to pat the black's neck, and then shoved a parcel of food into his saddle pack. "For the journey." She hesitated. "I don't even know your name."

  It was far too risky to tell her his true name. But it was as if she knew that and was asking for his trust. Somehow, he could not lie to her. "Edouard," he said.

  "Goodbye, Edouard. There is always a welcome for you at the Swan. She smiled as if he had passed some test, and he felt terrible. One small act of trust and she smiled at him as if he had done something wonderful for her. If she knew the truth about him, the secrets he kept, she would hate him.

  "That's kind but," he fiddled with the black's reins, unsure what to say. "You don't owe me anything. It was just a misunderstanding."

  "That's not why I made the offer." She was wearing an emerald green dress and her chestnut hair was loose this morning. "I know we will meet again. I have a gift for knowing these things." Before he could answer, she laughed, acknowledging how foolish it sounded. Their worlds were far apart.

  He smiled in return. When he was with her, she made him feel like he was someone different, or that he could be. He had taken her trust, but he had not told her the truth, and as he looked at her he felt shame. Edouard swung into the saddle and turned the black towards the road. He did not look back, though he knew she was watching.

  Chapter 55

  The court was waiting and watching. Ferdinand cursed under his breath. Beatrice, seated beside him, smiled as though she was enjoying herself. Ferdinand knew better.

  He rose and turned to her. Her hesitation was slight, a raised eyebrow, but he could not wait for his son any longer. He bowed and held out his hand, inviting his wife to join the dancers. Aware of the watching court, she placed her hand lightly on his and rose gracefully. The pearls on her headdress trembled, beneath it her hair gleamed golden. She wore a burgundy satin dress, with a high collar and long embroidered sleeves edged with pearls. The skirt brushed against his legs as she moved to stand beside him.

  Together they walked forward. The court parted before them. The first notes of music rippled across the silence. He had instructed them to make this dance a pavane. A familiar dance and he led Beatrice through the first steps without the need for thought. Despite his anger, he matched her elegance with stately determination. The court watched, but only until the
y completed the first intricate sequence then other dancers stepped forward to join them.

  As the floor filled with lines of dancers, he caught her gaze. No longer the focus of every eye still his smile did not waver, and he pitched his voice for her ears only. "Where the hell is he?"

  She glanced once to the dais where Gaynor sat, alone. Beatrice followed the intricate steps with perfect form, but he could feel her tension. She spoke through a smile that matched his. "I don't know. He should be here."

  "Damned right he should." He ignored the frisson of worry. He would know if Arnaud had been taken ill. Arnaud was not unwell today, or not particularly so, and it certainly was not the reason for his late arrival. He completed the next sequence of steps in silence.

  "He will be here." Beatrice did not sound convinced. She knew, as well as he did, that Arnaud's lateness would provoke unwelcome comment. It would not be as damaging as a failure to attend, but damaging nonetheless. He saw her gaze return to Gaynor. The girl looked pale, sitting alone, forlorn without her Prince. She seemed to fade more each day, losing all color and life. It made him angry, after the care they had taken, the risks they had taken, choosing a bride for Arnaud.

  Perhaps he should have accepted Micia of Allesarion's offer. His smile turned grim. Queen Micia's cousin would not sit meekly by, ignored by her Prince. Perhaps Arnaud would have been better suited by a wife who would challenge, annoy, even fight with him. A wife who would have the courage to make him give her what she needed. His smile twisted. A wife who in a few years might be a dowager Queen, giving Micia of Allesarion a chance to control a child Prince and future heir to the throne of Valderon. No, that was not a bargain he would ever have made. Micia's spite and fury following his refusal had proven that point well enough.

  There was a brief hesitation among the dancers, a ripple as they looked towards the door. He knew Arnaud had at last arrived. A moment of relief and then a surge of anger. He did not look round. He waited until the steps carried him into a turn, then he looked for his son. A quick glance, appraisal of his son's health was second nature to him.