Chapter 8
Waves of noise echoed round the tournament ground. In the stands, the crowd roared and stamped. Edouard grinned, letting the noise wash over him. They were chanting his name, anticipating his victory. But it was too soon to celebrate. He lifted his sword, planted his feet on the crushed grass, and swung the blade in lazy circles. The weight of it pulled at his shoulder muscles. After three days of competition, he was bruised and tired, but this was the King's Championship, a chance for glory.
It was so close now he could almost taste the victory. To earn a place in the final, he must defeat Sieur Jeremie, the current King's Champion. A knight worthy of respect, Edouard reminded himself. He needed the reminder, for Jeremie was trying his patience. The knight had claimed a respite to deal with his gear, a loose buckle. It was an old tactic to disrupt a match when things were not going well. Edouard grinned. He had taken two touches; he needed one more for victory, and Jeremie showed no sign of breaching his defense. No, things were not going well for Jeremie. But the delay was tedious.
Edouard looked to the adjudicators and raised his eyebrows. "Should we send for a chair, so Sieur Jeremie may take a better rest?"
The knight looked up with a stare so bleak that Edouard almost regretted the taunt. But as they locked gazes, he grinned and said, "Take your time, Sieur, truly it will make no difference in the end."
Jeremie turned back to his task, ignoring him. Edouard raised his sword and started another set of exercises. The crowd had quietened, as Jeremie had wanted. Edouard could hear the brightly colored pennants snap in the sea breeze, and somewhere among the knights' pavilions, a horse neighed.
He shivered in anticipation. It was not the rush he felt on the battlefield, but it was close. He looked to the royal stand where his uncle King Ferdinand was watching. Sheltered by rich tapestries, the King sat in a massive oak chair, flanked by his court and council. His broad shoulders were wrapped in sable clasped with gold. Even at a distance, Edouard could feel his frowning displeasure.
Ferdinand did not want him to succeed. He had even tried to prevent him claiming the knighthood he had earned in the summer campaigns. But Edouard had his supporters, including the King's first general. So, despite Ferdinand's displeasure, he would be knighted at the end of the tournament.
He looked to the King's left and grinned at his cousin Prince Arnaud. At least he could always count on Arnaud's support. Then he looked to the stands on the other side of the lists; three tiers, packed with city folk of every class, apprentice to merchant, and every one of them wanted him to win. In a minute, they would be stamping and cheering his name. That would annoy Ferdinand. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Edouard knew courting such attention would not please his father, either. But his father was not here. He ignored the thought and all other implications.
"Hurry up, old man," he taunted the knight.
Head bent, Jeremie ignored him, but Edouard knew the jibes had hit home. They thought him a green boy, his father, the King, all these old men. Jeremie could not bear to be beaten by a boy yet to claim his spurs. Well, he would show them. They told him to be patient, to wait his turn. He would not wait any longer, and when he took the title, none of them would be able to deny him what his sword and skill had earned.
This was his moment. It was a holiday, and half the city had come to the tournament grounds, set on meadows outside the towering walls of Fourges, the King's city. Horse lines and colored pavilions clustered at either end of the lists. A small village of stalls selling ale, hot pies and trinkets spread beside the river. For the watching crowds, it was a day for fun and freedom. A day for heroes.
Edouard brought his sword into position as Jeremie signaled that he had finished tightening the necessary straps. He knew he must be cautious. Jeremie would have used the respite to formulate new tactics. A glance at the knight's face showed his resolve; there was pride and more at stake.
The adjudicators stepped back. Jeremie raised his sword. His attack was quick and fierce, but Edouard was prepared for the powerful slashing stroke. He parried and held ground, determined to show his own strength. Jeremie did not like that. After a moment, the knight retreated, but it was clear his pride was pricked by the impending defeat, and the taunts had stirred his temper.
Light as a cat, Edouard advanced a stride and feinted left, whipping his blade through, deliberately showy. Jeremie parried with a grunt, and held. They were close now, blades locked upright. Edouard shifted his weight and prepared to disengage. An elbow arced towards his face. He jerked his head aside, barely in time, and took a grazing blow below the ear. Jeremie's blade stabbed towards his thigh. He flung himself clear.
His shoulder hit the ground and he rolled, coming up on one knee as Jeremie's sword slashed towards his head. He blocked, two-handed, aware that if he did not hold the stroke would slice open his unprotected face. The glare of sunlight as the angle of the blade shifted warned him, but it was too late. Slanting off his own, the blade scored across his breastplate. Jeremie had taken the touch.
The adjudicators called the point. As he came to his feet, Edouard raised his sword, immediately on guard. Perhaps the taunts had not been wise. The noise of the crowd had changed, enthused with excitement as the contest took a new turn. Breathing hard, he stood waiting as one of the adjudicators went to speak to Jeremie, no doubt reminding him that the tournament rules forbade attempts to injure, disfigure or maim. Jeremie answered. Edouard could not hear his words above the roar of noise, but he could guess what the knight would say. There had been no intention, it had been a feint planned to lead to the final touch. A good answer; intention was notoriously hard to determine.
The adjudicator withdrew. Edouard stepped forward. He sliced a fist downward, an unforgivably rude gesture. He wanted to acknowledge and accept Jeremie's intention. He was angry that his own complacency had allowed the older man the smallest chance. The knight's only response was to raise his sword and attack. The engagement unfolded blindingly fast; a flurry of high strikes, each met cleanly, led to a brief close battle. Edouard was ready this time; he avoided the attempted trip, and sidestepped an elbow to the ribs. He ducked clear as Jeremie jabbed the hilt of his sword towards his face.
He grinned, mocking the older man's failure. The crowd roared approval, pleased that he had survived Jeremie's questionable tactics. The adjudicators watched. Edouard did not look to them. He did not want their help, and they rarely took action in such circumstances. There was one person with the power to intervene, the King, seated high above them. Edouard knew he could expect no help from that quarter. His uncle would happily watch him cut to ribbons. The thought brought another grin; he didn't need any damned help anyway.
He had help of a kind. By the knights' pavilions, the Chamfort knights had pushed to the front of the crowd. They stood in a tight group, fists raised. Even over the noise of the crowd, he could hear them roaring the Chamfort battle cry. Edouard felt that cry in his bones. He could do this alone, but he did not need to.
Sword ready, he advanced to meet Jeremie. The knight mirrored him, blade raised. But he did not close at once. The match had taken on an extra edge. The knight circled warily, searching for an advantage. Edouard held back too, aware how high the stakes were now, and that he lacked the older man's battlefield experience. He did not like holding back, but he had been warned often enough that recklessness would be punished by men like Jeremie de Castille.
The older man smiled at his sudden caution. "Come on, boy, if you think you are good enough. Or are you afraid I'll hurt you?"
He laughed, caution be damned. "What have I to fear, old man? You already know I'm good enough. My time is just beginning, yours is done." He was ready for the charge that followed.
They fought without pause then, the swift passage of their feet across the grass attended by flowing shadows. The swordplay was quick and taken to the very edge of risk. He worked hard for an opening and, thinking he had achieved it, cut towards his opponent's leather-padded shoulder,
but Sieur Jeremie read his intention and was already moving. He lunged. Instinctively, Edouard spun away and the blade passed harmlessly. But he had lost position and form, and the next driving cut was not harmless. Seizing the slender advantage, Jeremie launched a brutal assault. Driven back, Edouard met each hammering stroke until the force of it numbed his arm and shoulder. The taunts had been foolish, but he had goaded the older man beyond caution, and the result was spectacular. No one watching could doubt this was the contest of the tournament.
Edouard weighed the options. He still held the advantage, two touches to one. He could wait, matching Jeremie with a show of perfection until the knight made a mistake. Or he could risk the advantage to create the breach that would bring him victory.
The decision was made in an instant. With a flurry of strokes, he worked for an opening. He got half a chance and drove forward, over-extended, to take it. In that moment, his left side was vulnerable. Offered the opening he sought, Jeremie did not hesitate. His blade came up with a force that would skewer through protecting leather and bite deep, inflicting the disabling injury he sought.
Edouard checked and moved to cover, grinning as the knight took the bait. Jeremie's blade skimmed his shoulder without touching it. Over-extended himself now, he could not recover in time to avoid the counter attack. He tried, but his balance was off. Edouard drove forward as Jeremie stumbled backwards. Edouard watched him fall, and then stepped in to take the touch. The crowd were baying for blood. He was owed as much. Instead, he fought back the urge to violence. Gently, he touched his blade to Jeremie's breastplate above the heart. He knew the irony would not be missed. The adjudicators called the touch and the victory.
Edouard swept the sword clear with a flourish, and bent to offer Jeremie his hand. After the briefest hesitation, Jeremie accepted the gesture gracefully and rose to salute him. The crowd roared approval.
Squires came to take their weapons. Edouard raised his arm to salute the Chamfort knights. In the royal stand, King Ferdinand had turned away. Jeremie approached with flat-voiced words of congratulation, but with the noise of the crowd, Edouard could not hear. He nodded and turned away from the knight, already thinking of the next bout. He was unconcerned if he slighted the older man; he had the victory, and nothing else mattered.
He walked to the royal stand. Jeremie followed. Drums sounded as they stood together to salute the King and court. Ferdinand accepted the salute, unsmiling. To spite his uncle, Edouard walked to the far side of the lists to acknowledge the cheering crowds. He took a deep breath. Everything he wanted was so close; one more victory and he would be King's Champion, despite his father, despite Ferdinand, despite all the old men.
Jeremie had left the lists. Edouard turned to follow, passing beneath the stand where the ladies of the court sat. The applause was lighter here and mixed with laughter and whispers. Several scarves drifted down at his feet. One in ivory silk embroidered with pearls landed across his shoulder, an expensive favor. He looked up to the stands, seeking its owner. It was difficult to tell with so many of the court ladies gathered. Among them, he saw a girl with golden hair bound in a net spun of ivory silk and pearls. She was smiling at him. He smiled back, but his attention was caught by the woman standing at her shoulder.
The girl was forgotten as he stared into wide green and gold eyes. Her lips were delicately curved, black hair lay in soft curls against her pale skin. There was something in her gaze that claimed his attention, and held it effortlessly. She smiled for a moment before turning away. She held a pale blue scarf between her fingers, but it seemed he had not earned her favor. Edouard stared after her. For a moment, everything was forgotten. His victory counted as nothing. He thought he would do anything to earn that favor.
He knew her, who didn't? The Duchess Mariette de Montmercy, widowed a year earlier and now returned to the pleasures of the court. Her husband seemingly forgotten. The gossips spoke of little else. Disconcerted, he walked on towards the knights' pavilions, with their brightly colored standards fluttering in the breeze. He walked towards the blue and silver standard of Chamfort. His father's knights were waiting, shouting approval and congratulations. Sieur Gerald clapped him lightly on one shoulder, and at once started to dissect the match and explain his faults in detail. Annoyed, Edouard forgot about the pale blue scarf.
Angelo arrived and punched him, not so lightly, on the other shoulder, grinning with a sort of furious pleasure. Angelo was in a dangerous mood. He had harbored his own hopes for the championship before Sieur Jeremie had ended them, ignominiously, in the first round. They entered the pavilion together. Edouard found a seat on one of the chests, amid the muddle of stacked swords and harness. A squire brought a flask and beaker. He took it and drank.
Swiping the flask, Angelo joined him. He smiled and said with only a hint of malice, "Well, you can't fail now. You face Sieur Ranald in the final. I don't know how such a blundering donkey made it so far. Even you should have no trouble with him."
Edouard looked for something to throw at him. Sieur Gerald turned, frowning. The ranking Chamfort knight captain was not a frivolous man. "Angelo, show some respect. Sieur Ranald has won through to the final and that makes him a worthy opponent. He deserves respect." As Gerald drew breath, Edouard braced himself for another lecture.
He glared at Angelo. But he didn't listen as Gerald droned on. Angelo was right. He would fight for the championship and against Sieur Ranald, one of the King's most devoted household knights, he would win. For a moment, he thought of his father, conspicuous by his absence. His father had resisted letting him join the army, and had not given permission for him to enter this tournament. So he had flouted his father's wishes. Angrily, he dismissed the thought. Yes, he would win. If he was to be free of the old men, his father's oppressive doubt and censure, nothing less than victory would serve.
Chapter 9
King Ferdinand watched his nephew's victory celebrations and scowled. He made no effort to hide his displeasure. Familiar with his temper, the courtiers serving him stepped softly. Ignoring them, he reviewed a number of options for dealing with his least favorite nephew, and discarded the most appealing. With a gesture, he summoned a page and, as the boy knelt at his feet, issued a single soft-voiced instruction. The boy bowed and ran to do his bidding.
Ferdinand could hear the avid murmur of voices behind him, and knew his court and council were discussing Edouard's dramatic victory. His nephew had made an impression. Ferdinand drummed his fingers against the carved wood of his chair. He wondered what had prompted his brother to send his brilliant son to dazzle them now, at this most dangerous time. It was unlike Rupert to be provocative, and he speculated on what change had motivated him. He concluded that he did not know, or care to know, his brother's mind well enough to guess. But in the end, it hardly mattered; whatever Rupert had thought to achieve, he must accept the consequences. With that thought, he turned to check that his own son was well.
His scowl softened. Arnaud, sitting in a matching carved oak chair lined with cushions, seemed to be managing the tiring day. Though he was two years older than Edouard, Arnaud looked younger. His soft brown hair, ruffled by the breeze, framed a pale face. He was smiling, but one thin hand gripped the wooden arm of his chair, and even though he was swathed in furs, it was plain that beneath them Arnaud was thin, fragile, clearly unwell. Even a stranger would see it. His father saw more. Ferdinand saw how every passing month made a difference, and how time was against them. Today, a flush of pleasure marked Arnaud's pale face. He had enjoyed Edouard's victory. Ferdinand thought there was a particular irony in that. He wondered if there was anything more dangerous than ties of blood and affection.
Arnaud grinned. "He will take the championship."
"It would seem likely." Ferdinand managed a smile for his son.
"You don't mind, do you?" Arnaud had to take a breath before he could continue. He had learned to hide the weakness, but not from his father. "It will be a good thing, for all of us, I know it will.
"
"If Edouard has the skill and is meant to be King's Champion, I am content." He did not usually lie to Arnaud.
"Thank you, Father; it is good for them to see there is strength still in the Vallentin bloodline." Arnaud hesitated and then said, "Edouard's display these last few days will compensate for any perceived weakness."
"Arnaud…"
"And it will give pause to those who would make trouble," Arnaud spoke softly as always, but there was a passion to his words. "Now is the time to call for my uncle, to invite him back to court. To show we are united."
"Rupert and his family will join us in the New Year for the Grand Duchess's birthday celebrations, as usual."
"That's not what I meant." Arnaud shifted, a small, uncomfortable movement. "You must call him back to court, to your council. You must keep him near and prove to those who look to exploit the rift between you that it is done and in the past." He took a careful breath. "You must call for Charles as well so that we may show a united front while there is still time."
"No. You are my son and heir. I will not look to anyone else."
Arnaud's gray eyes were clear and untroubled: sometimes it seemed to Ferdinand that his son accepted the future too easily. "Please, Father, denying the truth will not change it. Better that we make preparation for what must come."
"Enough." They were surrounded by people, but it was a struggle to control his voice. This was the hardest thing he would ever face, and he could not believe they were discussing it in the stands above a tournament field. "I will not listen to you talk like this."
"It must be said. Who else will say it?"
"This is not the place, or time, for such a discussion," he said with some desperation.
"No, perhaps not, but when else will I get you to listen?"
"It is said and I have heard you. Leave it now."
"And will you call for him?"
Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3) Page 8
