He shot Angelo a grateful look, though he knew it was hopeless. His excuse was laughably lame, and their previous brawls were hardly a secret.
"Of course." Sieur Antonio's face expressed skepticism and weary disapproval. Realizing how bad this would sound repeated to his father, Edouard started to apologize, but the Master of Horse held up his hand.
"Enough. I don't want to hear any more of this nonsense. Do you think I have nothing better to do?" He did not wait for an answer. "Clear up this mess at once and make sure you leave everything neat and clean as you found it. I will check later to see all is in order." He glanced to Angelo. "There will be no more horseplay; do I make myself clear?" He waited for their nods of acknowledgement. "Tomorrow you will spend the day helping me. I have six horses that need to be taken out to the manor at Berainne."
"Yes, Sieur Antonio," they muttered in unison. It was useless to protest that Berainne was a half-day's ride from Chamfort. They would spend all day in the saddle doing grooms' work. Edouard would miss the first day with his colt, and there would be no time for weapons training, which would cause trouble with Sieur Gerald. There would be no end to the trouble. And all for a little brawl. It hardly seemed fair.
As Sieur Antonio gave him a hard stare, Edouard hurriedly picked up a saddle. His stomach flipped; it was as if the Master of Horse had guessed his thoughts.
"Your father went to great trouble to get you that colt," said Sieur Antonio softly.
Edouard breathed a sigh of relief. Thankfully, Sieur Antonio was not as sharp as his father, and he clearly had something else on his mind.
"He took a lot of care to choose a horse that would reward the effort and skill you put into its training. Your father thinks you are of an age to shoulder such responsibilities and to take on new ones." Sieur Antonio glanced round. "Skill without responsibility is beyond dangerous. This would not impress him."
Yet another lecture, but Edouard knew he could not afford to annoy Sieur Antonio further. "I am ready. I understand my duty, and I will do everything in my power to impress him." He met Sieur Antonio's gaze. "But please don't tell him about…"
The Master of Horse raised his eyebrows. "Yes?"
"I'm sorry for making such a mess," he finished lamely.
Sieur Antonio sighed and waved a hand at the mess. "Tidy up, and be here at first light tomorrow." He turned on his heel.
Edouard watched him go. Across the tack room, Angelo got to his feet and started to stack the fallen saddles. The side of his face was swollen and a bruise was forming. It looked painful and despite being knocked round the head, Angelo had tried to help. Edouard felt like a rat. When it came down to it, he could always count on Angelo.
"I'm sorry," he said.
Angelo glanced round. He started to grin and winced. "It's alright you can't help being a stupid bastard." After a moment he added, "He won't say anything to your father."
Edouard untangled a bridle from the pile on the floor, wishing he could believe that. One thing was certain, if Sieur Antonio did tell his father, Angelo's prediction would come true. Edouard knew he would lose the colt, and more besides.
Chapter 4
Edouard yawned and stretched until his shoulders cracked. A huge sun hung on the horizon, staining the morning sky pink and violet. Grooms hurried past, completing the early morning feeding and mucking out. Blossom drifted lazily from the chestnut tree. He glanced sideways to where Angelo sat his horse: he had a face like a melon and Edouard could only guess at his mood. He tried to think of something encouraging to say, and failed. Saints of mercy, it was going to be a long day.
Moments later the grooms brought the horses, handing three to him and three to Angelo. Edouard sorted the lead reins and swallowed another yawn as Sieur Antonio arrived to give them instructions.
"The Count is expecting these horses and has paid handsomely for them." He glared at them both. "So there will be no foolishness on the road. You will make sure they arrive on time and in good condition."
"Yes, Sieur Antonio." He had no intention of getting into further trouble. There was too much at stake. Angelo muttered surly agreement, and Sieur Antonio waved them away.
They rode side by side along wide avenues, the horses jostling and settling into lines beside them. The rising sun tinted the chateau, shading the confection of elegant towers and ancient battlements pale pink. Perched high above the river, atop limestone cliffs, Chateau Chamfort was centuries old, half palace and half fortress. As they rode through the gilded gates, the town of Chamfort lay dizzyingly far beneath them. Sheltered in the bend of the river, the town was a muddle of gray slate roofs, treetops and church spires.
Angelo led the way down the steep road to the river and fortified bridge. He had not said a word so far. Edouard supposed he had reason to be in a bad mood. The mark on his jaw had darkened to a livid red and blue bruise. It looked painful. Edouard guessed he must have a sore head. It would be wise to tread carefully with him today. He resolved to be wise, whatever the provocation.
They crossed the bridge, the horses' hooves making a noisy clatter, and turned away from the town, following a road through meadows dotted with flowers towards the dark shadow of the Chamfort woods. The ancient forest surrounded the town, stretching for leagues in every direction. The vast woods, part of his father's demesne, held scores of hidden manors and remote villages. Some were wealthy, with land cleared for crops and animals. Others were tiny, a few cottages hemmed tight by the trees, leaving the villagers to scrape a poor living with a few animals. In the deep forest, people often followed the old ways and worshipped the old gods. Other parts of the forest were lawless and wild. Despite Prince Rupert's efforts, and his brother, King Ferdinand's displeasure, brigands and fugitives camped in remote forest glades.
It was a sunny day, but the road they followed was very old and dark. In places not much wider than a track, it plunged between steep banks woven with bare tree roots. Overhead, branches heavy with spring greenery formed a dark tunnel. It was not easy to lead three horses and negotiate oncoming carts and straggling groups of pedestrians.
By midmorning, Angelo's temper was fraying. As they squeezed past another slow cart, he urged his gelding to a trot, cursing as the blood horses he was leading hung back. "At this pace, we won't be there before dark."
"If we try to go too fast, we'll lose them," Edouard said reasonably.
"We'll lose them," Angelo mimicked. "That's helpful, seeing all this is your fault…" He urged his horse to a faster trot.
Edouard managed to keep silent. He followed, scowling at Angelo's back. For a while, the road was clear and they made good time.
The pigs appeared as if by magic. One moment the road was clear, and the next it was a maze of grunting, running pigs. The horses went berserk. Edouard fought to hold his three, grateful that the gelding he was riding was not too bothered by the smelly, squealing pigs. Angelo was not so lucky. As the horses he was leading tried to bolt in different directions, his mount bucked and shied, snorting as if in danger of its life. When Angelo curbed the gelding it reared, and his swollen jaw collided with its neck. He gave a grunt of pain, and in that moment, one of the horses broke free from his hold and bolted into the woods.
Eventually, the riotous pigs and their cursing owner disappeared out of sight. The horses calmed, and they managed to get them all facing the same way again.
Angelo stared into the trees. "The damn horse will be leagues away now. We'll be all night at this." Beneath the bruises, he was white-faced and tight-lipped with pain.
"He can't have gone that far," Edouard said, feeling guilty and responsible for the pain at least. "Can you manage the others if I go after him?"
"I suppose I'll have to," Angelo snarled.
He left Angelo to make his way slowly with the five remaining horses and, promising to be quick, headed into the woods. The horse's trail was easy to follow. Hoof prints showed clearly in the soft ground and there was a trail of trampled undergrowth. He kicked his horse to a
canter, knowing he needed to sort this quickly and get back to Angelo before anything else went wrong. With each mishap, the chances of his father hearing about the brawl increased, and so did the likelihood of losing the gray colt.
After a while, the trees opened onto a small path. He could still see the horse's tracks clearly. Just ahead, he saw a flash of movement. The bay horse was grazing along the path's edge. Seeing him, the horse startled, threw his head up and trotted off.
He went after it slowly. The lead rein was still hanging from its halter. All he needed was the patience to get close enough to snag it. The horse kept stopping to graze, but always stayed a little way ahead of him. Edouard dismounted and walked alongside his horse. It was easier to get close this way, and eventually he managed to lean beneath his horse's neck and catch the lead rein. Quickly, he checked the bay over for injuries. Its legs were clean, and it did not seem any the worse for its adventure, apart from some extra mud and sweat along its flanks, most of which could be easily rubbed off. The Count might not be impressed with the horse's grooming, but Edouard was too relieved to care. He swung back into the saddle and maneuvered the horses round to head back to the road.
It was very quiet this deep in the forest and, though faint, the sound caught his attention. It might have been the cry of a bird or an animal in pain, but for the strange way it prickled his senses. He reined the horses to a halt and listened.
Silence, and the faintest whiff of smoke on the breeze. The horses fidgeted, hooves squelching in the soft ground. The sound came again, high and thin with distance. A human voice, stretched in a long wail of terror. Edouard sat frozen for a dozen heartbeats, thinking stupidly of the gray colt, of Angelo and the five horses on the road to Berainne. And of his father. Then he dismounted, tied the bay horse to a tree, leapt into the saddle and turned back, spurring his horse to a gallop.
He rode at breakneck pace, pressed flat to the gelding's neck, skimming beneath low branches. He followed the sound of screaming. The smoke grew thicker, clouds of it drifting among the trees. The screams ebbed, faded, and rose again. He glimpsed the village between the densely packed trees. It was hardly a village, just a dozen ramshackle hovels: a place where people scraped a living from what little the forest offered.
He curbed the gelding, hard. Its hooves slid in the mud as it came to a ragged halt at the edge of the trees. Two of the hovels were alight, the straw roofs bright with crackling flames. A couple of sheep lay butchered in the mud. The smoke swirled and drifted, revealing people gathered in a rough circle beyond the huts. A score of villagers dressed in ragged clothes stood at the outer edges, weaponless, some creeping away towards the trees. He wondered what held the rest of them from running.
The smoke drifted and the scene unfolded before him. At the center of the circle, he saw a dozen brutish men dressed in furs and mail, armed with knives and staves. Brigands. The leader was a huge bear of a man, with a beard and dark, matted hair. He was dressed in an ill-fitting mismatch of filthy velvet and leather, likely stolen from some traveler. With one hand, he held a woman by the hair, in the other a rust-spotted sword, dripping blood. A man lay on the ground at his feet. A small girl crouched beside the fallen man, attempting to wrap her small arms around his body and somehow pull him up from the ground. A couple more bodies lay close by, unmoving.
Edouard reached for his sword as instinct took over. He did not stop to think that he had never killed anyone. By training and breeding, he knew he was ready for this. It was what his life was about, what Chamfort was about. His father, exiled from court due to his brother's jealousy, had devoted his life to teaching young men the arts of war. Even as a small child, Edouard had known that if he wanted to impress his father, he must excel at those arts. He excelled.
But he was not a fool. It would take more than skill to stand alone against a dozen vicious brigands. There was no time to find help, and he could not leave these people to their fate. It was not even a choice. He had a duty and a desire to fight. This truth, he discovered, was inescapable. His fingers caressed the sword hilt, sliding the blade from the scabbard. The other hand guided the gelding forward, out from the smoke, to approach the ring of terrified villagers.
As he rode forward, Edouard felt a thrill of anticipation. Doubt fell away at the prospect of action. He felt his lips curl, something between a grin and a snarl. Only a couple of the brigands carried swords, and he doubted they had been trained to use them. They might have numbers, but against a mounted knight they were outmatched for skill. He would teach them a lesson they would not forget.
At first, no one noticed him; then the first of the villagers looked up. His face lit with a moment's hope before his terror returned. The circle opened before Edouard, and he urged the unwilling gelding forward. The bear man saw him. He roared and came forward, waving the sword, and dragging the woman with him. She choked and the screaming stopped. But they had moved away from the fallen man, and the girl.
"Let her go and, if you have the courage, face me." Edouard was pleased his voice did not shake; his words rang out clearly above the crackling fire, above the villagers' sobs and moans. He felt his blood surge, hot for the fight.
"I need courage to face a boy?" The bear man roared with laughter at the idea. "Go back to your stables while you have the chance, and live to shovel shit for your master."
It was an easy mistake. He was bareheaded, wearing plain riding leathers. His older brother always said he dressed and smelled like a groom. The gelding was not a knight's horse. "If you're not afraid, why do you hide behind a woman?" He kept his voice soft, drawing the man to him.
The bear man did not come. Instead, he waved his sword, summoning his men. Edouard did not wait for them. He spurred the gelding, swinging his sword as the horse sprang forward. The blade bit deep into the first man's neck. Blood sprayed as he pulled it clear. His training took over. With a twist of his wrist, he slashed at the next man's chest. He felt a rush of wild energy. As the brigands closed around him, he spurred the gelding viciously. The terrified horse leapt forward, trampling two of the men beneath steel-shod hooves. But others closed in on his unprotected side. He kicked out at them, catching one in the face with his spur. The man screamed and staggered back, clutching a ruined eye.
Edouard roared a battle cry for Chamfort. He could almost taste victory; he would cut the brigands down, and take the leader alive to face his father's justice. But the brigands had their own vicious and well-practiced skills. Two of them caught the gelding's bridle as another drove a blade deep into the horse's chest. A dozen hands dragged the dying horse down.
Edouard leapt clear, landing beyond them. He stumbled and rolled, coming up quick as he had been taught, dagger in his left hand, sword in his right hand. The remaining brigands closed around him. They knew he was no stable boy, and they moved cautiously now. He counted five of them still standing. The bear man was watching. Edouard raised his sword. He was filled with a wild elation. It took every scrap of training to hold back, to wait for them. He wanted their blood.
They came at him in a rush, ill-disciplined and furious. He fought them, using ingrained skill, but with the focus and desire of a berserker, cutting and stabbing, using the blades and, when pressed, using the hilt of his sword and dagger, using his feet and elbows. He took two more down. He took blows and cuts in return but, caught up in the battle fury, he hardly noticed. Blood trickled into his eye; a knife caught his dagger arm. He fought on instinct. A blind thrust from his blade took one man through the gut and left him curled howling on the ground.
His elbow broke a nose. The hilt of his sword dropped another man dead where he stood. The others retreated, cursing him for a devil. He staggered, wiping the blood from his face with his sleeve. His shirt was wet with blood, and some part of him knew he should not be standing.
The villagers were still standing, watching silently. He wished they had the sense to run. Then he forgot them as the bear man came forward. He threw the woman to the ground and passed his s
word to one of the men. With a leer, he picked up a heavy cudgel. His eyes were mean and wary, but his voice was loud to impress his men.
"You made a mistake, boy, living this long." He hefted the cudgel. "But I'm not going to kill you, not yet. First, I'm going to beat your pretty face to a pulp. Then I'm going to give you to the boys, and when they're done, I'll take what's left and nail it to a tree. A lesson for others."
Edouard believed him. But it didn't matter; he didn't care. Deep inside, a strange hunger possessed him. He raised his sword. Blood dripped slowly to the grass. He grinned. "It's still thirsty." It was true of both him and the sword. "Why waste time talking?" He beckoned the man forward.
The bear man roared and swung the cudgel. He was fast. Edouard managed to twist aside, but the bear man attacked again. The cudgel knocked Edouard's sword aside, and the next blow grazed his shoulder hard enough to knock him flat. He rolled. The cudgel drove into the earth where his head had been. He rolled again, coming to his knees and launching himself while the bear man was still bent double, still lifting his weapon from the ground. Edouard crashed into his legs, stabbing up with the dagger. The blade slid deep into the man's thigh, and as he dragged it clear, a gush of blood shot into the air. It was a lucky strike to hit the artery. The bear man roared in pain and staggered back. He was done, but Edouard saw the final three brigands were coming for him. He lurched upright and grabbed for his fallen sword. Too slow.
The blow came from behind. He went down hard, blacking out for a moment and dropping his sword again. His father would kill him for such a mistake. Before he could recover, a kick to his ribs left him retching. He reached for the fallen sword. It lay beyond his grasp. Someone laughed. He scrambled halfway to his feet, but a heavy blow to his back sent him sprawling. Stunned, he heard the man's panting breath. A blade sliced across his back. He gasped at the kiss of cold steel and waited for it to slide between his ribs.
Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3) Page 4
