Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3)

by Richard Crawford

The cut did not come. Instead, the brigand grunted in surprise and pain. A woman was screaming, very close, "Help him!"

  Edouard managed to roll over. The brigand stood over him, a blade deep in his guts. Behind him, he saw the woman the bear man had cast aside. She was holding his sword and screaming at the other villagers. They came, in a terrified rush, picking up branches, pitchforks, axes. They swept down on the brigands before they could flee, and began hacking at them.

  The woman let go of the sword, and the brigand crashed to the ground. The others were lost beneath the villagers' frenzied attack. Edouard tried to sit up, but the world spun crazily around him. Groaning, he fell back. The woman came to help him. Her face was bruised, one eye swollen closed. She dropped to kneel by his side, reaching out to the worst of his wounds, using her hands to staunch the flow of blood. He saw her face and knew it was no good; there was too much blood, and already the cold crept along his legs and darkness wavered at the edge of his vision. He had heard enough battlefield tales to know how it went. There were no clerics of Tarsien here to save him.

  "Berthe!" The woman's urgent shout brought an old woman from the crowd.

  Stooped and limping, she came forward slowly and knelt at his side. Edouard looked up at her. For a long moment, she gazed down at him and then reached out to touch his face.

  He saw the delicate symbols painted on her hands and arms. Symbols that marked her as a daughter of the mysteries, a woman versed in healing and herb law, maybe even with the gift of healing and sight. He was not able to read the fine symbols well enough to know. It gave him hope until he saw her hesitate. She drew her hands back.

  There was something in the movement that scared him. "Mistress, please. My father…" The words were lost as he saw the look on her face and knew she would not help him. "Why?" he asked. "Rupert of Chamfort is my father; you will be rewarded." The last word was a gasp as the pain robbed him of breath.

  She shook her head. The other villagers were gathering around them now. The woman who had fought caught her by the shoulder.

  "What ails you? Heal him, Berthe. The boy saved you, saved all of us."

  Still, the old woman hesitated. Her eyes narrowed and her face settled into hard lines.

  Edouard struggled to hold her gaze, but his eyes lost focus. His head began to float and his vision wavered to a tiny point. He managed to mutter his father's name. He repeated it again. "My father…" He could no longer speak, but the sound of the woman's voice came to him.

  "Berthe, for mercy's sake. He's the Prince's son, and he fought for us. Why do you hesitate?"

  "You saw how he fought? And I see a shadow on him, a darkness to his path I don't like."

  After a silence, the woman spoke again. "You've never had much of a gift for seeing the future, why trust to it now, Berthe?"

  "He killed near a dozen men and he enjoyed it. That sort of bloodlust is a terrible thing in a boy his age."

  "He killed them to save you and me, to save all of us." The woman's voice was distant now. "He's no more than a boy. He might yet have a dozen futures."

  Silence.

  Then the woman's voice again far, far away now. "He's hurt bad, Berthe. No one will blame you if you fail. But if you don't try…"

  ####

  Edouard woke in the soft comfort of his bed, groggy and horribly thirsty. He lay still, blinking eyes that would not focus. His body felt strange, numb and heavy, like after a bad day in the lists and a night drinking with Angelo, but this was a hundred times worse.

  At first, he could not remember why he felt so bad. It came to him in bits: the village, the brigands, and last the echo of the voice of the daughter of the mysteries. When his vision cleared, he saw his father standing by the window. Slowly, the Prince turned and walked towards the bed, hands clasped behind his back.

  "Edouard," he spoke softly, but his face was a map of severe lines. There was an awkward silence. "How do you feel?"

  "Thirsty." His mouth was dry, and he could barely summon the energy to raise his head from the pillow. Bandages were wrapped tight around his ribs, making it hard to breathe. He watched as his father poured water and carried the cup to him. The memories were coming fast now. His hand shook as he took the cup. The water eased his thirst, but a glance to his father's face made his throat ache in a different way. He waited for his father to speak, heart thumping, somehow terrified. "Did Brother Yann heal me?"

  His father stood by the bed looking at him. There was something in his gaze, a measure of appraisal and uncertainty. At last he spoke, ignoring the question completely. "You missed your birthday. But it seems you've come of age." He did not smile. "The colt's waiting for you. He will make a fine horse."

  There was an awkwardness to the words that kept Edouard silent.

  A chair had been placed beside the bed. Prince Rupert rested one hand on it but did not sit. "Edouard…" he said, and for once he seemed uncertain. "The villagers told me what you did, the odds you faced to save them. It was well done." A pause, and then his father frowned. "It is our duty to protect the weak. That is what Chamfort is about. But skill in itself is a weapon …" Again the hesitation.

  "Should I have done differently?" The daughter's words were in his head. "Have I done something wrong?"

  His father shook his head. "No, you did what I would've done, what any knight would've done. You did what you had to, and you risked more than anyone could have asked. It's just that you've scared me a little." His father's fingers were white where he gripped the chair. "You're no more than a boy, and I must wonder if I've pushed you to become a man too soon. You've missed a mother's touch, and that is my fault." He drew the chair closer to the bed and sat down, leaning forward. "The skill you have is a gift, Edouard. Use it well, value the gift but never enjoy or glory in it. In some men, the gift becomes a dark thing. They find pleasure in it. But if you use your skill to protect the weak you will never do wrong." His father laid one hand over his. "Promise me you will always remember my words."

  "I promise."

  "You did a brave thing." The Prince smiled. "I'm proud of you. Now you must rest and get strong. The colt is waiting."

  His father stayed with him until he fell asleep. He said nothing more about the village, but as he drifted to sleep, Edouard felt the weight of his gaze and knew something had changed between them.

  When he woke, Angelo was sitting on the end of the bed, blond, exquisite in black and silver, and potentially spiteful. They stared at each other warily.

  Then Angelo grinned. "I could take a dozen brigands without getting all sliced up and fainting like a girl."

  Chapter 5

  Mariette stood at the gates of Montmercy and watched the column of knights approach. She laced her hands across her belly, an unconscious gesture, protecting the child she was carrying. Hugo's child, an unexpected blessing, and a joy he would never share. She swallowed against the knot in her throat and blinked away the tears. She had promised herself she would not cry. Surely, she had no tears left.

  The clatter of hooves comforted her. Above the knights' column, banners snapped in the breeze. The blue and silver of Chamfort was a welcome sight. More welcome yet was the sight of Rupert Vallentin riding at the head of his men. He raised a hand in greeting. One look at her face and he dismounted and handed his stallion off. After a moment's hesitation, she went to him. In the shelter of his arms, she was unable to hold back the tears.

  "Mariette, I'm so sorry." His hand stroked her hair like her father used to. He held her until her tears eased.

  She shook her head and stepped away from him, ashamed to make such a show of her weakness. "I'm sorry. What sort of greeting am I giving you?"

  "You have nothing to be sorry for. I am only sorry that I could not come sooner." He offered no explanation, and she did not press him. With a word of instruction to his captain, he drew her away from the ordered chaos surrounding his arrival. She led him away from the castle. They did not speak again until they were alone by the lake. The day was tu
rning cold, and a chill breeze blew off the water. He draped his cloak around her shoulders.

  "Tell me what happened," he said.

  She told him what she knew. He listened but did not question her. When she was finished, they walked in silence for a while until he spoke.

  "And young Jaime, he will be taking this badly? He worshipped Hugo, but at least he will be here to help you."

  Despite his question, she knew he would know what she had done. He was here to help and deserved an explanation. "I sent Jaime to Fourges to tell the King. I told him not to return." She took a breath. It was best he heard it all from her. "He was not there when Hugo needed him. I don't want him here." It sounded harsh, but she did not care. He was too kind to press her and turned smoothly to practical matters.

  "I have brought knights to fill the garrison. They are yours as long as you need them. We must find you a captain and a master of arms for Montmercy. These will be men chosen by and loyal to you, men you can trust. I will stay while it is organized."

  "Thank you, it is not for me, but for Francis. I must keep him safe and…." The words tumbled out and tears threatened again. She knew he understood some of it, having lost his beloved wife twelve years earlier when three of his children were still very young.

  He had never complained, but it could not have been easy for Rupert. Banished from court by his brother, King Ferdinand, he had hardly settled at Chamfort when tragedy struck. His wife, Adele, died giving birth to twins.

  Prince Rupert and the lady Adele, it had been a famous love story. After she died, Rupert had secluded himself at Chamfort and raised his children alone. He had turned his considerable talents to making Chamfort a center of martial excellence. Now young men vied for a place at Chamfort. Rupert and his old friends trained the finest knights in Valderon.

  In time, Rupert had looked beyond the schooling of young men in the art of war and made something more at Chamfort, drawing men of learning and accomplishment to create his own northern court. But he was always careful not to rouse the King's anger.

  Nearly a decade older, Rupert had been both friend and mentor to Hugo. Perhaps he would be the same to Francis in time. The thought prompted her to say, "If you will have him, I will send Francis to you. It is what Hugo intended in a few years' time, but things have changed." Her son was heir to Montmercy. He was a pawn in a dangerous game, and she was his only protection. There were few she would trust with his care.

  Rupert pressed her hand and smiled. "Best you wait to judge my sons before you commit to such a choice." His smile was wry, mocking himself.

  "I have no doubts. I would be honored. I know it is what Hugo wanted."

  "I will do anything I can to help, Mariette. Anything you ask." There was an intensity to his words that unsettled her a little. They walked in silence for a while.

  For once, Rupert's easy charm seemed to desert him. He gazed across the lake, taken up by his own thoughts. When he turned back to her, he was frowning. "But don't send the boy too soon. There is time enough for the arts of war." He saw he had surprised her. "Edouard was just a few years older when Adele died."

  His voice gave nothing away, but beneath his urbane mask, she could sense the run of emotion and memories as he continued.

  "Charles and Eloise were older. They understood better. The twins were newborn." He shrugged. "There were wet nurses to tend them, and they had Eloise to mother them. Edouard did not understand. I was taken up by my grief and distracted. Chamfort was a different place then. I welcomed the hard training, the harshness of the soldier's life."

  He shook his head, rueful. "I think Edouard was pushed from the nursery too soon. I fear I neglected him, and there was only one way for him to win my attention, through skill at arms. I have raised a tiger," he laughed, but there was no lightness in it.

  She thought of Francis, how he would never know his father, of all that he would miss, and ached for her son's loss. Tears threatened again, and she dashed them away angrily.

  "Forgive me, Mariette. I am not here to bore you with my troubles." He took her hand. "But don't hurry to send Francis away. He can start his training here with you close by. Let him know there is more to life."

  She nodded once, thinking that already Montmercy was more garrison than home. How could Francis not be affected by what had happened and her need to keep him safe? There was a thing that comforted her. "He is his father's son," she said and smiled.

  "Then he will do very well." Another wry grin. "I wish I could have such confidence in my boys." He laughed with her as they turned back to Montmercy.

  ####

  The next day, Rupert questioned the men about what had happened at Courbet and then rode out to see the burned village. He was gone all day, and when he returned there was a grimness to him. He did not speak of it until dinner was finished and they were settled alone by the fire with glasses of wine.

  When she could wait no longer, she asked, "What is it, what have you found? Rupert, please tell me."

  He set the wine glass aside and steepled his fingers. She could see him choosing his words. "From what your men tell me, and from what I have seen," he met her gaze. "This was not the work of outlaws, Mariette."

  She did not understand and shook her head in confusion. He continued.

  "Only knights could have carried out this raid. Renegade knights." He spoke the words as if they tasted bad.

  "Renegade knights." The thought sent a chill along her spine. "But why?"

  "I don't know. But the raid was too well planned and executed for mere outlaws. And so close to Montmercy, the knights had to know Hugo would come." Another pause, as if he would say nothing more, and then he said softly, "It was a trap, Mariette."

  She was shivering despite the fire's heat. "Why?" It was a plaintive cry, and she schooled her voice before she said, "Hugo did not have enemies."

  "The knights have not been seen again on Montmercy land."

  "No." She put her wine glass aside. "What does this mean? Is Francis safe?"

  "We will make sure he is," he promised. "I will take him to Chamfort if you wish, but," he rose and came to kneel at her side, taking hold of her hands. "If they meant him harm, they have had opportunity."

  It was true. They would have come in the chaos after Hugo's death. The idea that the attacks were planned to lure Hugo to his death filled her with terror. She had forgotten how to breathe. Only Rupert's presence stilled her panic. "What do they want from Montmercy?" It was not the right question, or not a question he could answer without answering others first. "I must know who did this. Who would hide behind renegade knights?"

  "I will do what I can to find out, but I fear it will not be easy to find the knights, and almost impossible to discover who commands them." His hands cradled hers gently. That Hugo had been killed by renegade knights was unthinkable. But Rupert would not suggest such a terrible thing unless he was certain. She saw from his face that he was keeping something from her, and she was afraid to ask.

  His gaze held hers. "It is best you look to the future, Mariette. There have been no more attacks. Francis is safe. You are safe. Montmercy is strong, and secure against any attack."

  Tears trickled down her face. "Why did this happen to Hugo? He was a good man. I don't understand what reason anyone would have to harm him."

  Rupert gathered her into his arms and held her. He offered no answer.

  ####

  Rupert stayed nearly a week. He said nothing of it, but she guessed it was time he could not truly spare. He found her a captain and master of arms, men she could trust.

  He spent time with Francis, riding with him, playing with toy swords, skimming stones on the lake. Seeing him with her son made her see that in sending Jaime away, she had taken something from Francis, but she would not change her mind and, whatever he thought, Rupert did not raise the subject. She was glad that he and Francis had become friends. It would make it easier when the time came for Francis to leave her.

  On the final night of h
is stay, they sat together after dinner, as they had done every night, and talked. He told her of Chamfort, of his daughter Eloise. It was good to think of other things. She had a question, though she hesitated.

  He smiled. "What is it, Mariette?"

  "You have not spoken of Charles. If Edouard is a tiger, what is Charles?" She hoped he would not mind. No doubt, he was used to the attention his eldest son attracted. If Prince Arnaud's health did not recover, Charles de Chamfort might one day be their king.

  "Oh, that is easily answered." He spoke easily, but his smile was a little tight. "Charles is a chess master, a player, a courtier."

  She could not quite make out his tone. "Such qualities will serve him well?"

  He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Mariette. I won't speak of the succession."

  "Of course," she said, nonplussed. "But tell me more about your children."

  After a moment, he smiled. "I am blessed, or cursed, with four sons, what can I say!" An expressive shrug. "I see myself in both Charles and Edouard, but in character and looks, they are so unalike it is beyond belief. They fight like cat and dog. Both outstrip me in their own way. Charles is a chess master and politician. Edouard is a warrior born. The twins are young yet, but I see a similar split in them, Henri is wild, Louis is kind." He laughed. "To be honest Mariette, Eloise is my only comfort."

  She knew he was joking, at least in part.

  Chapter 6

  Edouard groaned as he reached to unlace his shirt. His back ached, and yellow and blue bruises spread across his left shoulder. He unlaced his breeches and tugged off his boots. As he tipped up each boot, a shower of sand pattered to the floor. It seemed like he had half the riding arena down his back. The colt's training was not going well.

  That was an understatement. He had lost count of the times he had landed on his ass. The colt was as stubborn as a mule with a twisting buck he could barely sit on for more than a couple of plunges. Today he had only been thrown twice, though one fall hard enough to bury him head first in the sand. He could still hear Angelo laughing.