Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3)

by Richard Crawford

  Edouard had the taste of victory now. It was not enough. With a twist of his wrist, he swung the blade, gathering momentum to unleash a final cut. Sunlight glinted off steel as the blade swooped. Angelo scrambled to his feet, a little unsteady. Edouard ignored this; he knew Angelo well enough to guess it was a ruse. Close friends at any other time, on the practice ground they were the bitterest enemies, and rivals as only well-matched friends can be. Edouard was not fool enough to think Angelo would give up, or think it over, despite Gerald's furious commands that they desist.

  True to form, Angelo flung his blade up, expecting the attack. Edouard snarled in triumph, knowing his sword was too fast. The blade struck Angelo's breastplate with the force of a hammer, and then sheered up to strike a glancing blow to his helm. Angelo went down hard, skidding across the dirt like a sack of old armor thrown into a cart.

  A moment's utter satisfaction, a glory to match the petit mort, but a moment was all he had. Sieur Gerald's sword knocked the blade from his hand. Before he could draw breath to protest, Gerald's gauntleted fist struck a blow to his helm that left his head ringing.

  "Damn you, boy. When I call halt, you stop. Now put up your helm and answer me." Sieur Gerald was puce with fury and spitting mad.

  He took off his helm and threw it aside; it nearly took off a squire's head. Luckily Gerald did not notice, and the boy did not mind, grinning at him and rushing to retrieve the helm and his fallen sword.

  Gerald glared at him as if he had committed a crime. "Well, Edouard, are you done?"

  "It was a fair fight. Angelo's taken no harm." He only knew it for certain when he saw his friend climbing to his feet. "He would have done the same to me." And, knowing Angelo, he would be out for revenge soon enough.

  "What sort of excuse is that? You have the devil's temper. I should see you birched for ignoring my orders." Sieur Gerald's voice became softer, more menacing. "Or tell your father."

  "No!" Rather the birch than his father's anger, but he judged both were empty threats. He was too old for the birch, and Gerald would not bother his father with a practice ground tiff. Surely the old man was not so sour as to cause trouble for him four days before his eighteenth birthday. Still, he schooled his voice and bowed his head. "It was not temper. I was carried away by the contest. I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

  "Saints of mercy, Edouard, how many times have I heard those words from you?"

  Head down, Edouard tugged his gauntlets off and tried to look contrite. It was not his fault the old fool had forgotten the taste and frenzy of battle. The thrill of victory. Victory was all. What else did they train for? Angelo had escaped to the arena's edge, avoiding any share of the blame as usual. He was watching, carefully staying out of Sieur Gerald's line of sight. He stood at ease, with his helm beneath one arm, the sun drying his blond hair, an angelic smile on his face. Then, with a mocking wave, he was gone.

  "Well?"

  Edouard's gaze snapped back to Sieur Gerald. Annoyed by Angelo's mockery, his wits were slower to follow. He shrugged. "I don't know."

  "Then perhaps a stint with the squires polishing boots and armor will help you remember. You can start with Angelo's gear and mine."

  "Yes, Sieur Gerald." He looked away to hide a smile. The squires would be happy to do his work. It was only just, when he had done nothing wrong.

  "Edouard." Sieur Gerald's voice was sharp.

  He turned back to find the Knight Captain eyeing him narrowly.

  "This is your last warning. In a few days you will be counted a man, with a man's responsibilities, plus those that come with your name and rank. Your actions will reflect on your father. It's past time you realized there's more to honor than reckless courage and a measure of skill with a sword."

  A measure! Edouard bit back his reply and said meekly, "I understand, Sieur Gerald." He was past fed up with the old man's lectures, but he stood straight and nodded, keeping his face grim and hoping his attitude would convince Sieur Gerald to have done with it. The knight raised a hand, still not finished.

  "And see you do the task I set yourself, or I will find you a less pleasant chore."

  ####

  The following afternoon, Edouard perched on the tiltyard wall enjoying the sun and a moment's rest. His back ached from a bruising fall in the tiltyard earlier in the day, and he had a summons to meet his father in the stables shortly. He did not know what his father wanted and was in no hurry to find out. He hoped Gerald had not been telling tales. Surely the old fool had not made a fuss; no one had taken any harm. A moment later, he forgot Gerald as a shadow blocked the sun and a hard shove nearly sent him face first into the sand. Grinning, Angelo jumped up to straddle the wall beside him.

  "I'll wager ten sols on Bertaut, will you match it?" Angelo flipped a heavy purse in one hand.

  Edouard was not particularly pleased to see Angelo, knowing he was out for his blood since yesterday's defeat and likely to cause trouble for spite. But the offer of a wager seemed innocent enough. Edouard squinted into the sun, studying the pair of knights preparing to run the next course. "No, it's a fool's wager. Mouchet's horse is knackered."

  Angelo grunted agreement and slipped the purse beneath his jacket. Apart from a graze on his chin, he showed no ill effects from their contest. Edouard knew he had a long memory and always repaid double what he suffered.

  They sat in silence for a while. The knights ran their course, with Bertaut breaking a lance and taking an easy victory as Mouchet's horse pulled up lame.

  "Your father's in the stable yard," said Angelo, as if it was a matter of no importance.

  "Already?" He jumped off the wall. "Saints of mercy, why didn't you say something sooner?"

  Angelo just grinned and shrugged.

  "Bastard," he snarled, and promised himself he would strike harder next time.

  He ran all the way to the stables and arrived, sweaty, out of breath and, as ever, ill prepared to face his father. The Prince was in the yard, surrounded by the usual group of lackeys, Poincet, his chamberlain, Yves, his secretary, a couple of nervous pageboys and the tall figure of Sieur Antonio, his father's Master of Horse. Thankfully no sign of Sieur Gerald. Edouard did not think he had done anything to annoy Sieur Antonio, but he stood for a moment getting his breath and watching his father in action.

  Every inch a prince, Rupert Vallentin stood with his hands clasped behind his back. Sunlight glinted on the strands of silver in his dark hair and, beneath plain riding leathers, his straight back and trim waist belied any hint of age or weakness. As always, he seemed to be at the eye of a storm, dealing with a dozen things at once. But he missed nothing. With an abrupt wave, he summoned Edouard.

  He approached, back straight, shoulders back, keeping his face blank, still unsure what he faced. His father waved his attendants away until only Sieur Antonio remained. "Edouard, I have a surprise for you. One you'll enjoy." The Prince actually smiled, though there was a hint of malice in it, leaving Edouard with the sensation that his father knew of all his recent misdemeanors.

  But nothing bad so far. Edouard breathed a sigh of relief as he followed his father and Sieur Antonio across the grass to the east stable block where a groom he did not recognize was holding a magnificent dapple-gray colt. At the Prince's command, the groom led the horse off into a trot. Edouard stopped worrying about what he had done wrong and watched the colt.

  The horse seemed to float above the ground, each stride a show of power and elegance. As the colt turned to trot back, he gave a squeal and buck. Arching his neck the colt strutted, proud as a peacock and as pretty with his flowing white mane and tail, he was perfect, with clean limbs, a wide chest and powerful quarters and a bold, fearless eye. Edouard was sure he had never seen such a beautiful horse.

  "Well, what do you think, Edouard?"

  "He's magnificent."

  The Prince nodded. "I saw his grandsire and Audouin de Chaillou win many tournaments. He has his grandsire's eye and coloring."

  "You mean," he stared at
the colt in awe. "His grandsire is Blue Vengeance?"

  His father nodded. "And by Blue Fire, one of the great stallion's best offspring. I have a chart of his complete bloodline."

  Edouard could not take his eyes off the colt, nor could he resist feeling jealous. His father had a dozen horses and no time to ride; he hardly needed another, especially now when he claimed he no longer had the time or inclination to take part in tournaments. It was unlikely the Prince would ride to war again. And when would his father have time to train a young colt? He supposed Sieur Antonio would see to all that. Still, it seemed a waste of such a horse.

  "So how will he do?"

  "I'm sure he will suit you very well, sir."

  His father turned to face him with a wry smile. "But he's not for me. What use would an old man like me have for a horse like this?"

  His father was still smiling, but Edouard could not help blushing to be so easily read. He stammered, "Then, who? You can't mean he is…" He didn't dare hope. It was three days before his eighteenth birthday and though his busy preoccupied father never actually forgot, he certainly did not arrange surprises like this. "He's really…" Still he dare not say it.

  The Prince nodded with a measure of impatience. "He's yours, Edouard, to break and train. Make sure you're worthy of him."

  "Yes, sir." He could not stop grinning. Sieur Antonio slapped him on the back. Even the groom grinned as he handed the colt's lead rein to him. The colt immediately nuzzled him and then tried to nip his hand. Gently, Edouard smacked the soft muzzle away.

  "What will you name him?" his father asked and, folding his arms, stood waiting for him to pronounce the perfect name.

  Edouard bit his lip and then stopped, knowing his father hated fidgeting of any kind. He searched desperately for a suitable name, a name worthy of both the occasion and the colt. Mumbling something to gain time, he scraped a hand through his hair trying to jog a sensible thought loose.

  A new pageboy had joined the waiting group. A moment later, Yves came to hand the Prince a note. Scanning it quickly, he looked up.

  "Edouard, I'm sorry, this is something urgent I must deal with." He folded the note and handed it to his secretary. He looked serious and his parting words were of a different tone. "Edouard, I want you to remember this birthday marks a coming of age, and increased responsibility." Another pause and a slight nod before the Prince finished with fair conviction. "I know you'll make me proud, Edouard."

  He watched his father walk away, guessing that he had escaped a much longer lecture. But that did not matter. He stroked the colt's arched neck, already dreaming of tournaments they would win. Sieur Antonio's voice intruded.

  "What are you waiting for? Get him bedded down for the night and fed."

  "Yes, sir."

  He fetched the colt's hay and oats himself, and then sat in the straw to watch him eat. The stables grew quiet as the horses settled for the night. Outside, the grooms swept the cobbled paths and raked the grass clear of straw and dusky pink blossom fallen from the ancient chestnut tree. Edouard dreamed of jousts, battlegrounds and fame. He hardly noticed time pass, until a drawling voice jolted him from his daydreams.

  "Well, that fine horse will be wasted on you. Let's hope your father sees sense and sells him on before you get a chance to ruin him."

  He cursed and quickly slipped out of the colt's stall, brushing straw from his britches, embarrassed to be caught daydreaming. Angelo was lounging against the wall. Immaculately dressed, he smelled like a girl and clearly had plans to woo one tonight.

  Edouard attempted an expression of indifference, but he could not keep the pride from his voice. "He's a grandson of Blue Vengeance and mine to break and train."

  "It's not your birthday yet," said Angelo, spitefully unimpressed. "A ducat says you'll fuck up before the day and lose the colt." He grinned and brushed dust from dark blue velvet. The coat was slashed to show pale blue silk, the color of his eyes, and cut to accentuate wide shoulders and lean hips. "Your father's not a fool. He'll think better of wasting such a valuable horse on you."

  "What would you know? Nobody would give you a donkey to train." It was a weak riposte; Angelo was a superb horseman. As an afterthought he added, "You're a useless prick." He picked up the colt's halter and headed towards the tack room.

  "Yes, I have a prick and I know what to do with it, unlike some."

  Edouard did not attempt to answer that. Two years older, Angelo had unchallengeable superiority on that one battleground. Scowling, he turned into the large tack room. Packed to the rafters with polished kit, the room was immaculately neat and tidy; Sieur Antonio would not have it any other way. Saddles were stacked to one side, cleaned and oiled bridles hanging around the walls. He hung the halter on a hook, still smarting at Angelo's jibe. Of course it was easier for Angelo to find and bed girls.

  It had to be easier if you were not Prince Rupert's son, known to the whole of Chamfort, both chateau and town, since your birth, and if you didn't have a pompous and perfect older brother like Charles to harangue you endlessly about duty, responsibility, dignity…

  A wet cloth hit the side of his face with a stinging smack. As Angelo prepared to strike again, Edouard stepped back out of reach. "Damn it, Angel," he said, rubbing his shirtsleeve across his face. He didn't know what the cloth was soaked in, but he had a feeling it wasn't water.

  "Don't call me that," Angelo snarled. Out for revenge, he was predictably happy to take offence. He advanced, twisting the cloth ready for his next strike.

  Edouard looked round for a weapon, but the only thing to hand was a bucket. He threw it at Angelo's head, hoping to slow him down. Angelo ducked and the bucket sailed past him; he straightened, grinning. Unhindered, the bucket crashed into the wall and bounced away, showering Angelo with sludge-green water.

  Forgotten, the bucket hit the floor with a thud. Edouard watched, enchanted, as a trail of oily green sludge slid past Angelo's ear and dripped onto his immaculate blue velvet. For a moment there was silence. But it was too perfect; heedless of the consequences, Edouard began to laugh.

  The tack room was too crowded for a brawl.

  The first collision left Angelo tangled in a mesh of saddle blankets. He threw them off and emerged flushed and furious. Edouard howled with laughter as he saw a coating of white horsehair had joined the sludge defacing the slashed velvet. The venom of Angelo's next attack left him no time to gloat. Off balance, he rebounded from a fist to the side of his head and staggered sideways, bashing his ribs into a workbench. Before he could recover, Angelo kicked the back of his knee, and he crashed to the floor. He rolled, narrowly avoiding a vicious kick to the ribs.

  Scrambling to his feet, he realized that Angelo had really lost his temper. His immaculate and expensive velvet was stained, ripped and covered with horsehair. His fine golden locks were disordered and, in patches, sludge-green. He smelled of the stable. Tonight's assignation was ruined or at least delayed. Angelo's angelic features were white with a fury that would not easily answer to reason. It was time for soft words and apologies. Edouard grinned. "Looks like you're going to be lonely tonight, prick."

  He sidestepped Angelo's berserker rush and aimed a punch as he blundered past. It connected. Angelo grunted and turned. They eyed each other warily and circled, but after a flurry of blocked punches they came together. He struggled to achieve a wrestling hold. Angelo did the same. Locked together, they fell backwards, sending a stack of saddles crashing to the floor. Edouard grabbed at dangling reins for purchase, dragging himself half upright. The bridle ripped from its hook, and he staggered backwards. Angelo was upright and coming for him. Desperately, Edouard twisted the leather reins around his fist and swung the bridle like a weapon. With a heavy clunk, the bit caught Angelo's jaw. He went down like a poleaxed heifer.

  "Oh, saints." Edouard dropped the bridle. "Angelo?" Receiving no answer, he approached cautiously. Angelo was on his knees, one hand clutched to his face. When he made no effort to retaliate, Edouard slipped a hand
under his arm and dragged him upright.

  "You broke my jaw," Angelo mumbled.

  "No, I didn't," he said, hoping it was true. A red weal marked Angelo's jaw, and the side of his face was already swelling. "Sit down and I'll find something to put on it." He helped Angelo to the pile of saddle blankets and turned to look for a cleanish cloth, or something that would do to make a cold compress. He heard footsteps, but with his back to the door, he could not see who it was. He cringed at Angelo's sharp intake of breath. Reluctantly, he turned round.

  Thankfully, it wasn't his father. It was Sieur Antonio, and the Master of Horse was not amused by the wreck of his tack room. He stood in the doorway frowning as if he'd found rats in his bed.

  This was bad; Sieur Antonio was one of his father's most trusted friends. He ruled the stables and the squires' equestrian training with iron discipline. His gaze traveled over the disarray and the mess. "What is going on here?"

  "Err…" he searched for the right words, or any plausible explanation. Angelo, still dazed, was not going to be any help.

  "Did the squires and grooms leave this mess?" Sieur Antonio asked with brisk impatience.

  "No, of course not."

  "Of course not. Good. So what happened?" Sieur Antonio's voice was soft, polite, but that was not a good sign.

  "I was looking for something."

  "Ah, I see." Sieur Antonio nodded as if this made perfect sense. "And Angelo's face, what happened to that?"

  "The saddles hit me when they fell," said Angelo, suddenly finding his voice. "It was an accident."