Edouard engaged them and prayed Michel had taken the chance to run. He needed to know what St Andre was doing but, hard-pressed, he had no chance to look. The two men left were competent swordsmen. Raymond was considerably better and using his men as foils gave him an advantage. Edouard regretted the loss of his main gauche, he had a poniard in his boot, but it would not be much help. He maneuvered towards the body of the man he had stabbed, hoping for a chance to recover his dagger.
Raymond was swinging wide in an attempt to out flank him. Edouard backed away, feinting left and spinning towards the man who showed least appetite for the fight. A flurry of cuts and the man dropped back, letting him break clear of the trap. Raymond growled orders, and the men rallied. Edouard heard the ring of blades, behind him. It could only mean one thing. For a moment, he lost concentration. Panic whipped his head round. Michel had not run, he had drawn his sword and engaged St Andre.
Edouard spun back. The moment's inattention allowed one of his opponents to get close and, before he could recover, it cost him a cut to his dagger arm. He hardly noticed. Ducking away he attacked, a red mist of fury and fear swept over him and the berserker was loosed. Instinct took over. The man who had cut him faced his first berserker rush and fell to a thrust through the heart. Scooping up the man's blade Edouard flung it at Raymond. As the captain parried the whirling blade, Edouard charged. His downward cut slashed Raymond's thigh to the bone. The captain fell.
The last, cautious man retreated. It was a mistake. Injured, Raymond could not come to his aid. Alone he was vulnerable. Faced with Edouard's next berserker rush, he panicked. Within moments, his defense crumbled and Edouard's blade took him through the stomach.
The red mist was real now; there was blood everywhere. But he had done it. Badly injured, Raymond was clutching his thigh, struggling to stem the bleeding. He was no longer a true threat. Edouard turned to go to Michel's aid. The silence warned him.
A little way up the slope, Michel staggered and collapsed to his knees. St Andre's blade was lodged deep in his side. Casually St Andre pulled the blade clear. Michel gave a soft cry and collapsed to lay curled in the grass. Edouard started forward. St Andre took one step and laid his blade against Michel's neck.
"Throw down your sword," he said.
Edouard did not hesitate; he let the blade fall and ran to Michel. As he dropped to kneel at his side, St Andre stepped back. Michel was conscious but the wound, low on his left side, was deep and bad. Blood was already pooling in the grass. Edouard could not think. He had forgotten how to breathe. Michel's hand caught his, gripping hard. Their eyes locked. Edouard held Michel's gaze for a moment and read a message there. He hesitated, Michel's hand tightened; it was as good as an order. Edouard turned to look up at St Andre.
"I need something to staunch the blood." His voice broke on the words. Desperately he looked around, seeing nothing he began to remove his jacket coming to a crouch and then half standing to do so. As he rose, his hand brushed his boot top. With his jacket half off, he struggled clumsily with one of the sleeves. He was standing upright now. The sleeve jerked free suddenly. He staggered a pace closer to St Andre. The poniard was in his hand.
He lunged and the blade flashed upwards. With uncanny intuition, St Andre read his intent. Fast as Edouard was St Andre was already moving, throwing himself desperately aside. The blade missed its target and scored St Andre's neck and ear. Blood gushed from the cuts, but Edouard knew the wound was not deep enough. St Andre recovered quickly and raised his sword. Edouard held his ground, facing him with only the small blade. He could not retreat, behind him Michel lay helpless.
St Andre laughed. "Checkmate. A commendable, if predictable, effort, Edouard, I admire your resolve. Truly, it's a shame it must end like this, such a waste."
Frozen in place, his hand gripping the sticky hilt of the poniard, Edouard struggled for control. The urge to attack was overpowering, but St Andre's taunt was accurate. Behind him Michel was bleeding to death. Edouard did not think he could be saved, but if there was to be any chance he knew the bleeding must be staunched soon. Faced off against St Andre he could do nothing. And his show of defiance was a joke; a poniard, against a blade, he would be cut to pieces in seconds. He could not even retreat without leaving Michel further exposed and that was not an option.
St Andre knew all this. He stood waiting. Close by Raymond was cursing as he bound up his thigh. He would be done soon. Edouard did not think he could fight with such a wound, but it would be another man to worry about.
With nothing to lose, Edouard was prepared to beg. Without taking his eyes from St Andre, he made a quick motion with his free hand, indicating Michel. "This was not necessary. He knows nothing..."
"Please don't waste time pleading for his life, Edouard. He's as good as dead anyway. You should be glad your brothers are no longer at Etrives."
Edouard heard the words and the last thread of control snapped. "Edouard, no!" Ignoring Michel's cry, he threw himself forward.
Despite the torrent of rage, the instincts that had been conditioned through years of training remained dominant. He did not attempt a direct attack against St Andre's blade; instead, he hit the ground and rolled to one knee. He let the small dagger fly. In the dull light, the spinning blade flickered like spilled quicksilver. St Andre tracked its flight, and his blade clipped it from the air with effortless precision. Edouard followed the dagger, too desperate to care that his fate was likely to be the same. He saw St Andre ready himself, his powerful wrist flexing. The sword moved relentlessly back into line.
Focused on St Andre's blade, braced for pain, Edouard had no warning. A figure loomed to his left and then a powerful blow knocked him flying. He hit the ground again and rolled. The possibilities flicked through his mind, by the time he surged to his feet he knew. Even knowing, the sight was enough to halt him in his tracks. Somehow, Michel was on his feet and facing St Andre. He stood awkwardly but he held his sword, and the blade raised and ready. It was enough to give St Andre pause, but Edouard knew there was only one outcome.
He turned to look for his sword. Across the trampled grass, Raymond was still struggling, unable to stand on his injured leg. Edouard ignored him, grabbing up his sword he turned back. Michel had parried two blows, but the third drove him to his knees and, with no hope of rising, he was at St Andre's mercy. Edouard threw himself forward. There was no time for subtly or caution, his running charge drove broadside into St Andre before he had time to strike again. Michel slumped to the ground.
Edouard saw him fall. There was nothing he could do. He started forward, but St Andre turned in time to meet his charge, falling back, absorbing the power of his attack with a series of jarring parries. Despite his impetus, Edouard made no dent in his defenses. He had never sparred with St Andre and rarely seen him fight. The Marechal trained rigorously, but he did so in private, and now Edouard learned the advantage it gave him. He had little idea of his mentor's strengths, weaknesses or favored moves. St Andre knew his style and skill very well. Within moments, he had turned defense into attack and Edouard was hard-pressed.
He had always known that his plan to engage St Andre would mean fighting for his life, he had been prepared for that, but the stakes had changed. He had thought there was a chance he could best the Marechal in a fair fight. Beyond that, he had not set great value on his life, now it held even less value. But perversely his need to win had increased. Now he was fighting to save or avenge Michel.
He set himself to probe his opponent's skill, initiating a series of engagements, pressing every angle of attack and defense. St Andre covered every attack easily and, when in a position to, attacked with ominous strength, speed and balance. He displayed no weakness in form or tactics. Aware he was being tested, but it seemed to amuse him. This chilling confidence suggested a reserve of skill and strength as yet untapped and left Edouard desperate.
He kept a watch on Raymond, but it seemed his wound, or loss of blood, had weakened the Captain and, after a few atte
mpts to stand he had settled on a rock near the horses, taking no part in what was happening. Certain of his commander's supremacy. While St Andre held the upper hand, he was no threat, but Edouard did not dare count him out, not with Michel so vulnerable.
The terrain offered no advantage, in places the grass was slippery with blood, but those places were littered with bodies and well known to both of them. He was without his main gauche or poniard, but St Andre had, so far, chosen not to use his dagger hand; either from confidence or sportsmanship. They had both suffered cuts, but nothing that would slow them, even if the fight were lengthy.
It came to him that St Andre was his match in all but youth and maybe speed, and superior to him in several areas. The Marechal had uncanny instincts, strength he could barely judge, and advantages of height and reach. Edouard realized that it was possible he had underestimated him. He remembered, belatedly, how his father had spoken of St Andre's skill with a blade. As a young man, he had been King's Champion several times.
St Andre smiled as if he could track these thoughts. "So, Edouard, you have your trial by combat, but it seems justice is slow to decide in your favor, why could that be?" He spoke loudly knowing that Michel, if he was conscious, would hear him. "You surely do not suppose that victory will prove your integrity?"
For once St Andre had misjudged. Edouard knew where to strike to win this point. "After Ralmadre you would speak of honor." The smile was gone as St Andre attacked.
The contest, which had begun with a series of fierce but neat engagements, became brutal. They traded heavy strokes, giving ground and advancing, constantly searching for an opening. The clash of steel was no longer the only sound; effort shortened breath to gasps and hard-pressed grunts. Caught flat footed, thinking too much, Edouard was driven back.
He stumbled and St Andre came after him, slashing hard towards his head. Edouard parried, the blades jarred together, and for a moment they were body to body. St Andre pulled his dagger. Instinct saved Edouard, he was moving even as the Marechal's left hand stabbed upwards. His leap took him clear.
St Andre snarled a curse. He stood for a moment, breathing hard as his hooded gaze measured Edouard. Then, without a word he lifted his blade. It was a statement, as clear as any words. Edouard took a step back, and instinct more powerful than any training brought his blade up. He had heard the older knights speak of men with death in their eyes, facing St Andre he understood what they meant. The games were over.
Edouard hesitated, overwhelmed by a strange fear. St Andre was the man he had made his commander, mentor and tutor, a man he had been in awe of and accepted as his superior. But he was a man capable of breaking every code whilst still inspiring men to follow him. A man who had caused him to betray his family and his honor; who had played him like a pawn. Had made him both fool and traitor. The weight of that thought nearly crushed Edouard. He managed to block St Andre's first attack, but it was a clumsy response; unbalanced he stumbled backward. The next engagement went no better for him. He saw St Andre smile. The smile might have finished him, but at that moment Michel called out.
"Edouard. For Chamfort, do what must be done!" It was a command given by a voice he had obeyed all his life. It reached Edouard where no other might have. It was the voice that he had listened to since childhood, advice from the man who knew and perhaps loved him best. It was linked to a trust that had never been betrayed, or not by Michel.
St Andre spoke one word. "Raymond." It was command enough. Then, with supreme confidence and turned back. Edouard knew he had very little time. He lunged, already twisting as St Andre parried. He let his blade glide away from the parry and drove in close, body to body. No choices remained. Michel had given him a command. It was not about him, his death mattered only if it allowed St Andre's survival. He set aside everything else, St Andre was a threat to his family and to Valderon, set against this the codes of honor had no meaning.
As he crashed against St Andre, Edouard slashed down. The blade cut across the back of St Andre's knee. He screamed in rage and agony, half falling as the blade severed his hamstring. Edouard moved quickly. He struck the Marechal's sword aside. Even in that last moment, on his knees, St Andre fought. His dagger hand lunged upward. Edouard knocked the dagger aside, almost carelessly, his attention focused on his own blade. Sheened with blood it arced down.
Chapter 63
Louis gathered his reins as his horse faltered, and spurred the animal back to a canter. Mud splattered his face and clothes, and his legs and arms ached, he was unaccustomed to the hard pace Sieur Angelo was setting. The horses were blown. Louis was finding it hard to keep up. He had no choice, along with Henri he rode at the heart of a band of six Chamfort knights, chosen and led by Sieur Angelo. They carried no standard, and all Chamfort devices or colors had been stripped from their trappings. From a distance, they would not be known, challenged directly they might be recognized, which was why Sieur Angelo had left most of the knights in the woods several leagues north of Etrives.
The hard pace had paid off. To their west, the bulk of Castle Etrives lay along the horizon, with the city spread below it. Angelo led them around it, traveling cross country, away from roads and tracks, and passing well to the east of Etrives to avoid the army camp. They had forded the river a while back. Now they crossed rough ground seamed with streams and ditches. It made for hard riding. Louis braced himself as they approached another ditch. Sieur Angelo did not slow, and the horses leaped it from a canter.
As his mount landed on the far bank, Louis gathered the reins and spurred on again. Henri was a horse's length ahead, alongside Angelo. Castle Etrives had slipped into the distance behind them. Ahead the hills came into sight. Two of the knights sent on to scout had already reported back. Edouard and Michel had ridden into the hills, separately. St Andre and five of his men were with Edouard.
Sieur Rainier was still ahead, tracking where they had gone. As they left the river and its flood plain behind, the meadow provided firmer ground, and Sieur Angelo spurred his horse to a gallop. At this pace, they covered the distance to the hills quickly.
Sieur Rainier was waiting for them. They slowed to a walk at the sight of him. Angelo rode ahead to meet Rainier. The two men spoke for a moment, and then Rainier led them on. Henri urged his horse to a trot, riding up close behind them. Louis followed. Angelo, who had been speaking, fell silent as they approached.
Not liking this, Louis asked, "What news, have you seen them?" The silence lasted too long. Just as he was about to demand an answer, Sieur Angelo shrugged and glanced to Rainier.
"They will know soon enough." He waited for a moment, but the older knight said nothing. Angelo turned in the saddle looking back to face them. "It seems we are too late, things have gone badly," he said bluntly. They had reached the foot of a low hill. As he spoke, Angelo drew rein and dismounted. "Rainier if you would have the men keep watch, I will take the boys down."
"What's happened?" Henri was about to spur his horse, but Angelo caught the bridle.
"We must go on foot, so there is no sign to show a group of riders was here. They are not far away." He hesitated and glanced to Louis. "Prepare yourself, Edouard is all right, but Sieur Michel is hurt." He turned away and started up the hill.
Louis had a dozen anxious questions, but he kept silent and followed. He had made a choice to be here and must now face the consequences. Henri stayed close at his side, and they walked up the hill stride for stride, matched like one person. Sieur Angelo had reached the crest of the hill, and he stood waiting for them. Catching his first sight of what lay below Louis stopped abruptly.
At first, he thought it must be a battlefield. In the valley the grass was trampled flat and clogged with blood. Bodies lay scattered across the valley bottom. He could see no sign of survivors, then he saw a figure kneeling beside one of the bodies and recognized Edouard. Sieur Michel's horse stood close by.
Angelo had started to walk down to them. Louis followed with Henri alongside him. Sieur Michel lay on the
grass, his head was pillowed on a folded cloak, and a blood drenched jacket covered his left side. A water flask lay close by.
He was speaking, his voice a bare murmur, but there was an urgency to his words. Edouard knelt at his side, head bowed dark hair falling forward to hide his face. As they approached, Louis stared at him anxiously, but Edouard did not look up and gave no sign he knew they were there. A sword lay at his side, the blade stained with blood. As they drew closer, Sieur Angelo hesitated. He raised a hand to hold Louis and Henri back. "Edouard?" He said it softly, cautiously.
Sieur Michel stopped speaking. He looked up, saw them and attempted to rise. Edouard leaned closer, laying a hand on his shoulder to restrain him. Then he looked up. At first, he moved so awkwardly, and his face looked so strange Louis thought he was hurt. But then he saw that though Edouard was covered in blood he did not seem to be wounded, beyond a shallow cut on his arm, the blood that soaked his clothes was not his own.
Edouard's face was chillingly blank. His gaze passed over Angelo without registering any change. Then he saw them. He flinched. "Angelo, how could you bring them here?"
Sieur Michel turned his head. Louis forgot how to breathe; he understood what should've been obvious, there was too much blood. Alongside him, Henri drew breath to speak, but no words came, just a choked gasp.
Sieur Michel said something to Edouard, too soft for them to hear. Then he raised a hand calling them forward. They went to kneel by his side, facing Edouard across his body. Angelo came to stand behind them. Michel turned to them and smiled. "Don't be afraid, it will be done soon. There is no pain now." Shocked Louis looked to Edouard, but he was staring down at Michel and hardly seemed aware of them. Sieur Michel took a careful breath. "There are things your father must know."
Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3) Page 63