Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3)

by Richard Crawford

  He could not lie to Arnaud about this. "No, I will not call him."

  "But why?"

  "I cannot."

  Arnaud did not complain, but he looked suddenly weary. Ferdinand turned at once, looking for the pale robes of Brother Claude, initiate of the healing order of Tarsien. At his look, the young man hurried forward. But seeing him, Arnaud shook his head.

  "I do not need your assistance. Save your strength, Brother Claude."

  It was an old argument. "Arnaud, if you will not let Brother Claude ease you, perhaps you should return…"

  "I am fine, thank you, Father. You cannot think I would miss seeing Edouard triumph?"

  Ferdinand sighed, his patience wearing thin. "Of course not, and you are to present the victory wreath."

  "To Edouard." There was a hint of challenge in the words.

  "If he proves worthy," Ferdinand said with a tight smile, and continued quickly, "Will you at least join me in the pavilion and rest for a while?"

  "I will do fine here."

  With a sigh, Ferdinand turned away. He knew better than to insist. His son could be stubborn as a mule when he chose. He stood up. The court rose when he did, bowing as he passed among them. His privy council stood closest, the most powerful men in the land. His gaze scanned their faces, and the niggling sense of unease deepened. He knew they plotted and schemed that was the nature of the court. It had always been so. As long as he had the power and strength to hold them in line, it was just a game. He managed not to look back at Arnaud. With the succession threatened, the nature of the game was changing.

  Ferdinand put the thought aside as he descended stairs lined with halberdiers of the King's guard, dressed in ceremonial crimson and gold. He saw Sieur Ranald waiting, and was glad that Arnaud was not with him. Sieur Ranald walked forward and bowed. He was a tall man, strong and heavily muscled, his sandy brown hair cropped short. Without breaking stride, Ferdinand raised an arm to greet the knight, drawing him to his side as if to offer casual congratulations. He wished this meeting to arouse no comment.

  "So, Ranald, you will fight for the tournament wreath. You do us proud."

  Sieur Ranald's smile of pleasure faded quickly. "I fear you will be disappointed, sire, I cannot match Sieur Jeremie's skill."

  "I am sure you will not disappoint us." Ferdinand lowered his voice. "There is one thing we desire." He paused, holding the knight's rapt attention. "I believe by following Sieur Jeremie's example it might be possible. In the heat of competition, skill does not always prevail. You have other advantages."

  Sieur Ranald did not break stride, but Ferdinand felt him tense. The knight's gaze sought and held his. "Sire?"

  "You understand me," Ferdinand said tersely. "I desire you take this victory. If skill will not serve, use whatever means will. I give you leave."

  Ranald's pace had slowed. "There is risk in this, sire."

  "I understand that. But of course there is always risk in such contests; it is what sets such value on the prize. The boy is known to be reckless." There was no one close by.

  If Sieur Ranald was shocked, it showed only briefly. His face stiff, he bowed, accepting his duty, though Ferdinand could see it brought him no pleasure. "I will not fail you, sire."

  They had reached the pavilion. Another line of guards in crimson and gold awaited him. Sunlight glittered off their halberds as they snapped to attention. Ferdinand came to a halt. He let his hand drop from Sieur Ranald's shoulder. For a moment he stood in silence, and when he spoke, it was quietly. "I do not ask this of you lightly."

  "Forgive me, sire. I did not mean..." Sieur Ranald dropped to one knee. "I was only concerned if my skill falls short, the risk…" He stopped, floundering as he found there was no etiquette to guide him here.

  Ferdinand contained a gesture of impatience, and quickly reached to draw the knight to his feet. He understood Sieur Ranald's success had been unexpected; the knight had not dreamed he would contest this final. Achieving it, and faced with a more skilled opponent, the best he had hoped for was perhaps to lose with honor. Ferdinand could guess the nature of the dilemmas posed to Ranald's conscience. He wondered how to reassure him. Perhaps he should point out that his brother had four healthy sons. Edouard was not even the heir. With a grim amusement at the irony, he discarded the thought. Instead, he said prosaically, "The role of King's Champion may be diminished, but the title is still highly prized. You are a knight of my household, it is natural this victory would mean a great deal to you."

  "It does, sire. My sword and life are yours."

  Ferdinand silenced him. He wondered why fate had chosen this man, of all his knights, so unsuited for the task. "I would see you as my champion, Sieur Ranald. If it pleases you to think of it that way, I give you leave to pursue the victory to the best of your means."

  "I will not fail you, sire," said Sieur Ranald, but this time the tone of the words pleased Ferdinand well enough. He smiled and touched the knight lightly on the shoulder before turning aside to enter the pavilion.

  Ferdinand stepped beneath the pavilion's gilded canopy. A page came at once to slip the heavy fur from his shoulders. Another brought a lighter mantle of dark velvet to replace it. Ferdinand shrugged, settling the robe about his shoulders. Behind him, the noise of the crowd faded as the silk awnings fell closed. He sighed, glad to see the end of a trying morning. It was a relief to be away from the court's avid gaze, the constant whispers and speculation. The pavilion was as large as a hall, forty paces long and nearly as wide. Sunlight glowed through the walls. Rush mats and carpets had been laid over the grass, and furniture had been brought from the palace, including a dining table and chairs set on a platform. The table was laid ready, sparkling with fine silver and glass. Servants were making the final preparations.

  Oblivious, Ferdinand settled in a chair, still brooding. The pages brought a silver ewer and bowl and soft linen so he could wash. He wrestled with a moment's doubt. Was the risk too great? As water trickled across his hands, he dismissed the thought. Rupert was no fool; he must know that sending his son to claim the wreath of King's Champion amounted to a challenge. Well, he would suffer the consequences. Rupert and his son would both suffer the consequences. Ferdinand gestured impatiently, and the kneeling pages completed the ritual and retreated. At once, the chamberlain clapped his hands, and a line of liveried servants entered, bearing food and wine.

  Ferdinand dined on quail and venison, washed down by strong red wine. As the servants laid platters of pastries and candied fruit on the table, his chamberlain approached. He bowed and spoke softly. "The Chancellor is here, he says it is urgent, majesty."

  "Send him in." Ferdinand raised a glass of wine as his Chancellor entered. Basile de Autrens was a young man of humble birth. Stick thin with plain features and curly brown hair, neatly trimmed, he did not command attention by his physical presence. He had studied law at the University of Etrives before coming to Fourges; very soon after his arrival, the quality of his mind had come to Ferdinand's attention. Taken into royal service, Basile had found his way easily among the twisting paths of statesmanship. Most importantly, he had proved his loyalty time and again. The combination had enabled him to rise quickly to the post of Chancellor. Ferdinand prided himself that he had an eye for such men, young, brilliant, but lacking the opportunities birth could ensure. Such men were hungry. Ferdinand had a talent for using them.

  He nodded greeting, suppressing a smile as he saw the rich brocaded robe, the extravagant jewelry and fine rings the young Chancellor was wearing. Basile lacked taste; the pleasures and temptations of wealth were too new, and he indulged them poorly. Ferdinand did not mind. If Basile showed and felt the shortcomings of his birth, it made him easier to control, for now.

  "What news?" he asked waving towards a stool.

  "Riots in the Jallo, majesty."

  Ferdinand cursed; though it was not unexpected, the timing was surprising. The poorest part of Fourges, the Jallo lay close by the harbor, a warren of filthy streets and tu
mbling ramshackle dwellings. All summer unrest had simmered. Discontent as taxes rose to fund the war with Ettivar, and fanned by the cost of imported wine, ludicrously expensive due to the war. There had been attacks on foreign merchants accused of speculating. The rise in taxes sparked discontent among the wealthy. Soon after, trouble flared, finding its outlet in the Jallo as it always did. It had been unsettled in the city's poorest quarter ever since. "Is it dealt with?"

  "Yes, but close to one hundred dead, with more injured and some fires still burning."

  Ferdinand tallied the dead. The city had seen worse, but this could not be allowed to continue. He shook his head. "I would happily see the whole lot burn. Were any of the ringleaders among the dead?"

  "No, majesty, they were not seen among the rioters."

  "They grow cautious, and clever choosing today." Ferdinand hesitated, but only for a moment. "Find them and deal with them individually. No arrests, I don't want martyrs. You know how to handle it?"

  The Chancellor nodded. They had discussed this before. But he did not move to leave.

  "There is something else?"

  "More reports, from the north, of attacks on villages in the great wood within the demesnes of Chamfort and Broudogne. The reports come daily now."

  Ferdinand raised his glass and a servant hurried to fill it. He sighed with exaggerated displeasure. "Brigands." He took a sip of the wine, watching his Chancellor. "Deal with them. Send word to our brother Rupert, let him make use of the strength he gathers at Chamfort. Tell him we would see these brigand bands cut down, and peace and safety restored even in the wildest places of our realm. Tell him it is his duty."

  Basile nodded, but he looked uneasy. "Majesty, I have studied the reports. I believe these attacks may not be the work of common brigands. It is much like the trouble seen in Montmercy a year ago, and more recently this summer on the southern borders of Etrives. I believe it has a more sinister purpose."

  "I have heard your theories on this." Ferdinand selected a gooseberry pastry from the platter. He took his time, making the Chancellor wait. "Such evil flourishes where there is oppression and weak leadership. There is no oppression in Valderon."

  "That is true, majesty." It was clear Basile wished to be more direct, but good sense won out. "But these attacks bring fear and unrest to the countryside."

  "If you see a threat in this, I ask you again, what gain is there to any foe of Valderon in these places, when our wealth and strength is in our great estates, cities and towns?"

  "I don't know, majesty, but there have been deaths, notable deaths, Duke Hugo's murder…"

  Ferdinand raised a hand, an impatient gesture to silence the Chancellor. "Nothing more than ill chance that the brigands were close by, or family treachery. He should never have ridden from the village alone." He remembered the Duke had a son too young to rule, and thought, bitterly, that treachery was always close at such times. "I do not see the widespread danger in these raids." He was prepared for the Chancellor's objection. Basile was no courtier; his convictions were strong and the need to express them often overrode caution. Ferdinand indulged him for a moment; his honesty was useful, if annoying.

  "But, majesty, there have been other deaths, men of note."

  "Bring me proof, Basile. I will not make decisions on rumor and suspicion, bring me proof and I will consider it again."

  "The men I send never return."

  "And that proves nothing except that your men are incompetent. Bring me proof or do not trouble me with this nonsense again."

  Basile took criticism badly. He rose, flushed and graceless. "As you wish, majesty." His bow was hasty and awkward. Ferdinand watched him leave, his mind already on other matters. He sat for a moment longer before turning to his chamberlain and asking him to relay some specific instructions to the duty captain.

  ####

  As the lists emptied, Mariette left the stands. She smiled as she moved between groups of ladies, ignoring the stares and whispers. Beyond the gaggle of the court, she walked around the tournament ground towards the village of stalls. She wandered past displays of leather, metalwork and dried herbs, finally stopping at a gaudy stand of ribbons. Sophie, her new maid, followed close at her heels. Mariette knew this without looking round; the girl was scrupulous in her duties. And only in private did she broach the line between servant and companion. At first, she had resisted when the Compact suggested she might need a maid she could trust with her secrets, but Mariette was growing used to Sophie's presence.

  She bought a dozen ribbons, handed them to Sophie, and then turned to make her way deeper into the warren of narrow alleys between the stalls. The air was damp and thick with the smell of crushed grass, ale and roasted meat. Stallholders called their wares and haggled, shouting to be heard. A group of small boys darted among the crowd in pursuit of a howling dog.

  A merchant stepped forward, smiling. "Will you do me the honor of viewing my tapestries, my lady?" He indicated a long stall hung with brightly colored, glittering arras. His wagon parked behind and another pavilion alongside to cover his precious tapestries.

  She followed him between the hangings. Mathieu was waiting for her beneath a tapestry showing the Battle of St Cammarchet. He smiled and came forward.

  "It is good to see you, my lady. Is everything well?" His greeting was easy and pleasant, as always. But she saw tension in the set of his mouth and anxiety in his gaze. He took her arm, leading her to a more secluded place.

  "I am well, thank you, Mathieu." She smiled, hoping to set him at ease. "And you were right, Sophie is a help." The girl was waiting a little way off, watching to see they were not overheard.

  "I'm glad," he paused. "We didn't like to think of you alone at court."

  "I'm rarely alone," she said.

  He frowned but let the comment pass. "What news?"

  "I think we may have an ally in the young Chancellor, Basile de Autrens. He came to me to speak of Hugo's murder." She watched the hope kindle in Mathieu's eyes. "He has a sense that something is wrong, out of balance, he says. But he knows little more than we do. He has been gathering reports for some time. He sees the growing unrest as the first move in a game of power. But he has not managed to convince the King."

  "What game?"

  "There is only one game now, succession." She smiled at his surprise; no one at court would have needed to ask such a question. "Prince Arnaud is ill, and his health fails with each season, everyone can see it."

  "And the King hates his brother?"

  "Yes, it provides opportunity for others."

  He glanced round and kept his voice low. "But that would mean our enemy is motivated by power…"

  She nodded. "Or the shadow knights are controlled by someone powerful. Their activities range far and wide. What else makes sense? And who but someone powerful would have knights to command? Whatever their purpose, there is no doubt these men are well trained and provisioned."

  She had come to wonder why Hugo had not seen it, and thought that perhaps it was not something he could have believed. Protection and duty had been in Hugo's heart and blood; 'strength to serve' had been his motto. He would never imagine a knight could turn against the weak, or slaughter innocents as the shadow knights did. It seemed someone powerful had no such scruples and had somehow convinced knights to spread terror. "They may even be at court," she said. "Murders are easily hidden amid the general unrest in the city."

  "A city like Fourges, with a dozen conflicting interests, what could better suit this evil?" He dropped his gaze to the flattened grass. "You must be careful," he hesitated. Before he could continue, she answered easily.

  "If I go into the city, I have Stefan and his men to protect me."

  "Of course, the Captain is a capable man." Again the barest hesitation, as he struggled to find the words. "But I am more concerned about the role you have chosen to play at court. The risks you are taking…"

  She cut him off with a gesture. "I have taken a role that hides my purpose, a role th
at attracts attention but pleases the gossips too well for anyone to question or doubt me." She laughed. "It pleases them far too well." She watched his discomfort without pity, knowing he wanted to offer words of caution. "What choice did I have, Mathieu? The grieving widow earnestly searching for the truth? If Hugo was no random target, what sort of attention would that attract from our enemy?"

  He did not answer.

  "I found that a smile, a look, a show of interest was the quickest way to unlock secrets. So I took the game further, powerful men have similar weaknesses. They covet the power of Montmercy and Broudogne. They see it in the hands of a woman and they despise my weakness. They desire that power." She let a pause of her own making develop. "Is it my fault if they believe they are seducing me? May I not play the same game?"

  "But, as you say, they are powerful men and our enemy may be among them. It is a dangerous game."

  "From what you have told me, it is no more dangerous than any other for those who stand against the shadow. You asked me to play a part, Mathieu. I have done what you asked. I have brought you the information you needed. Do the results displease you so much?"

  "No." He shook his head, but a frown still creased his forehead. "You have given us a great deal, you must be careful."

  "Enough," she said, losing patience. "Do not lecture me like a child, Mathieu. I have brought you allies like the Chancellor, and Edgar de Michelac. I have even done what Jai would not; I have dealt with his mother. Diane de Baccasar may be reviled for her past, but her contacts…" She paused. "It's Jai, isn't it? He has pushed you to this, your words are his words?"

  "No, but he is your family. He has the right to show concern."

  "He was Hugo's family," she said. "And little good his care did Hugo."

  After a moment's silence, Mathieu said, "He is with Bruno they are hunting the shadow knights. It is a difficult and dangerous task. He does not spare himself." Mathieu hesitated. "He shirks no risk."

  "Nor should he." If his words were meant to convey a message, she did not care to hear it. "And, to find Hugo's killers, I will match him."