Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3)

by Richard Crawford

  Ferdinand watched blank faced as the next engagement unfolded. Fitter and fresher, Sieur Ranald used his power, but nothing more. Edouard met power with finesse, and seemed not to feel the effects of his injuries. Ferdinand could only guess what it cost him. A small, silent part of him admired the boy's bravery, understood the effort and persistence that had honed such skill, and longed to claim it, as Arnaud suggested, for the glory of Vallentin. But this was Rupert's son and he could not.

  The Chamfort knights had settled now. It was a bad sign, and Ferdinand held out little hope for his knight's success. Ranald had lost his only real chance of victory and was struggling to match a level of skill he would never possess. Ferdinand wondered about the men who fought his battles, who dealt in death, and yet, given the chance, would cherish defeat above victory for the manner and honor of the fight.

  The thought distracted him, and he hardly noticed the end when it came. But his attention was caught by the crowd's hiss of indrawn breath. Through a blur of blades and sunlight, he saw Ranald fall. His knight went down hard. A moment's stillness. Silence, the cheers and gasps choked off by the drama. Ferdinand lost breath himself when he saw the wildness in Edouard de Chamfort's eyes. Injured, driven beyond the tournament's civilized game, the boy looked feral. Ferdinand froze at the sight of such naked ferocity and desire for victory. Edouard's sword was a blur as it swung towards the fallen knight. For a moment Ranald's fate, his very life, seemed in the balance. The blade skimmed the knight's breastplate with an almost human shriek. The touch was taken. Ranald lay panting, but unharmed.

  Ferdinand heard the cheers, saw the Chamfort knights surge forward, yelling. The court were silent around him, considering what they had seen and the implications.

  The boy had done something extraordinary. Ferdinand scowled. Of course he had; he was Rupert's son, damn him. It was what he'd dreaded most. The boy had his father's insane bravery, but he also had that quality which turned a simple gesture into theatre, that moved men to cheer and to follow. It was a dangerous quality in one of royal blood. Long ago he had seen something of it in Rupert, had grown to fear it and him. He had sent his brother away then.

  The adjudicators had declared the result. The trumpets and drums merged with the roar of the crowd. Sieur Ranald bowed, conceding defeat, and then walked, straight backed, beside the victor to a place in front of the royal stand. Together, they bowed. Ferdinand acknowledged them. They turned to salute the stands. The crowd roared for Edouard. Sieur Ranald stepped back, joining the applause. The boy looked dazed. Ferdinand wondered if the performance would be capped by a dramatic swoon. No doubt, the ladies would love it.

  Edouard de Chamfort stayed on his feet until he was among the crowd of Chamfort knights. It was hard to see what happened then. Ferdinand turned away. Behind him, Arnaud, who had been applauding, was quiet. Brother Claude was kneeling at his side. The monk rose and turned to leave. With a sudden suspicion, Ferdinand raised a hand to halt him.

  "Where are you going, Brother?"

  Arnaud answered. "I am sending him to Edouard."

  "No." He sensed Beatrice was listening, but she did not speak.

  "He's hurt," said Arnaud. "If you want him upright for the presentation, he will need help. Unless you want him to come before you bleeding like a stuck pig?"

  Ferdinand hesitated. It took a lot to make Arnaud angry, but he was fond of his cousin. Beatrice did nothing to help. Surprisingly, it was Brother Claude who intervened.

  "Sire, if I might suggest?" Given leave, he spoke as always with deference. "I might attend Lord Edouard to stop the bleeding and assist the physicians. It will take very little of my strength, and I will be close by if Prince Arnaud needs me."

  He agreed, not that he really had a choice. The monk departed, and he was left to face Arnaud. He met his son's cool gray gaze without apology. After a moment Arnaud said quietly, "Your knight did you little honor today."

  He did not answer. The silence drew out until Beatrice spoke.

  "Edouard will be fine. It is a coveted prize; you should not blame Sieur Ranald."

  "I do not blame Sieur Ranald. He has been poorly used today." Arnaud took a ragged breath, for once not troubling to conceal the struggle.

  Ferdinand spoke before he could continue. "You have made your point." He stood up, ending the conversation. There was a rustle as the court responded. He retreated to the pavilion, trusting Beatrice to deal with Arnaud. It was not fair, but his patience was too thin to face his son's anger.

  When he returned, Arnaud remained silent. His gaze searched his son's face. Arnaud seemed well enough. Beatrice met his questioning look with raised eyebrows, but she said nothing. He took his place, thinking that he wanted this day over and done with. But there was the presentation to come, and first he had to knight the seven young men chosen for their valor in the summer campaigns. They were waiting at the bottom of the steps, dressed in white and gold, their hair loose about their shoulders. They carried no weapons, and came before their King, unarmed, to claim their right to carry arms as his knights. Among them was Edouard de Chamfort, apparently well, upright at least, the white and gold cloth of his tabard unsullied. He supposed he should thank Arnaud for that.

  The crowd had been allowed down onto the grass. They covered the ground of the tournament arena, close enough to touch their heroes. A line of guards held a narrow pathway clear.

  As trumpets sounded a rippling fanfare, the chosen seven walked forward to climb the steps. The first man stepped forward to kneel before him. Ferdinand smiled. He raised the royal sword, and using the ancient words completed the investiture. Then he presented the new knight to the cheering crowds. He came to Edouard de Chamfort last. As Edouard came to stand before him, Ferdinand let his fingers flex around the hilt of his great sword. Edouard glanced up to meet his eyes, and then dropped gracefully to one knee. His gaze cast dutifully down.

  Ferdinand was not fooled by this show of respect. He paused for a moment and wondered, inconsequentially, why of all his nephews he despised Edouard so particularly. The boy did not even have the look of his father. But today he had proved beyond doubt that he had his father's spirit, his brilliance at arms, and that indefinable glamour that drew men. Ferdinand smiled grimly. His courtiers and advisers standing close by fidgeted anxiously. He did not need their reminder, this was not the place or time; this was a day of celebration. He spoke the words and Edouard replied, softly.

  "By the grace of God, my heart and sword are yours to command, my King, to protect the weak, serve the poor, and defend your realm from all enemies."

  He raised the great sword and touched it gently to his nephew's shoulders.

  Edouard kissed his ring, and Ferdinand raised him. The crowds were chanting the boy's name. The court applauded. Beatrice was waiting; she smiled as she placed the sash round the boy's neck. She murmured something Ferdinand could not hear. He frowned, deafened by the noise. Then it grew impossibly louder. Ferdinand turned, and his ill temper fell away.

  He watched as Arnaud came slowly forward. For Ferdinand, it was a heartbreaking comparison. Arnaud, frail and stooped beneath the bright sun, came to stand beside his cousin, but Edouard knelt at once, and taking Arnaud's hand, bowed his head to kiss his ring. Laughing a little Arnaud placed the green victory wreath on his cousin's head. He pulled him to his feet and offered the golden spurs. Edouard grinned as he took them. Then, in a gesture of affection, the cousins embraced, hardly noticing the renewed and deafening cheers from the crowd.

  Ferdinand noticed. He knew well the importance of such tableau; he smiled and drew Beatrice to his side. Together, they watched as Arnaud and Edouard received the crowd's acclaim. Ferdinand saw the young ladies of the court still holding the favors their chosen knights had carried, but they all looked to Edouard now. Beyond them, the powerful men and women of his court watched, judged and plotted. He wondered suddenly what repercussions this day would have. As if reading his mind Beatrice was watching Arnaud and Edouard. She said softly.<
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  "They have mended the harm you sowed. You created a hero today. Was that your intention?"

  Ferdinand held his smile, though he almost ground his teeth with fury. He wondered how many more ways this day could annoy him. He stepped forward and raised a hand, bringing it down on his nephew's shoulder with a thump of congratulation. It seemed the boy was expecting something of the sort. He hardly flinched. Ignoring Arnaud's glance of reproof, Ferdinand smiled to the crowd.

  Chapter 10

  The steep-sided glade lay at the edge of the palace gardens. As dusk settled, torchlight flickered among the ancient trees lining the slopes. Music drifted through the leaves, the sound of pipe and lute echoing eerily in the fading light. A path had been cleared, and courtiers with ladies on their arms flowed downhill into the glade like a multicolored river. Edouard ignored the path and made his way between the trees. He stopped a little way down the slope. In the shadow of an ancient oak, he watched the procession of silks, satins and furs; the ladies with their hair curled and dressed with pearls, jewels glittered against pale skin. Snatches of conversation drifted up to where he stood: laughter, witty asides and malicious comments. Watching and listening, it came to him that the court was another type of contest, and not that different to a tournament. But with rules he did not understand. With a shiver, he wondered what in hell he was doing here. The potential for ignominious defeat was greater here than on any tournament ground.

  The snap of broken twigs heralded Angelo's arrival. He was wearing apricot satin, rippling lace and a vulgar amount of diamonds. "Remind me again why we are here?" he asked.

  "To watch the masque. You didn't have to come." Edouard fixed his gaze on the torch-lit spectacle at the heart of the glade. He ignored Angelo's snort of laughter, and pretended to concentrate on whatever was taking place, though he was too far away to hear the players.

  A low stage was set in the hollow, with tapestries hung between the trees to provide a backdrop. It was growing dark, and the torches around the stage cast strange shadows. The trees were decorated with swathes of cloth and garlands of flowers. The singers and musicians stood to one side of the stage.

  Ferdinand and Beatrice were seated on a long dais set back from the stage, surrounded by the most powerful members of the court. The foreign Prince, a swarthy man with a goatee, was seated at the King's side. The masque was in his honor. He watched with a smile, and turned often to Ferdinand, rings flashing as he made exclamations of exaggerated delight. Edouard thought him a buffoon.

  On stage, several of the court beauties posed artfully, each in a different colored robe, with garlands of woodland flowers twined through their hair and laced around their arms. Chief among them was one of Duke Roch de Isdorielle's daughters; it seemed she had been given a chance to catch the eye of the Prince. A dozen children frolicked at the edge of the stage. Edouard could make little sense of what was going on; he thought the children were meant to be forest sprites, or elves. They at least seemed to be enjoying themselves. Centre stage stood one of the court poets, dressed in glittering armor; he was holding a sword and reciting verse.

  The court spread around the glade, reclining on carpets and cushions. Some were strolling among the trees. Appearing to keep his attention fixed on the stage, Edouard's gaze searched each group.

  "Where's the wine?" Angelo asked. "Tell me you brought wine."

  "By the tree." He glanced round and pointed to the flask set among the tree roots. Seeing Angelo was distracted, he used the moment to turn and scan the groups seated further from the stage, those strolling among the trees and just arriving. But as soon as Angelo was settled with the wine flask, Edouard turned his gaze back towards to the stage.

  "Stop pretending you have any interest in that overblown farce." Angelo unstopped the wine flask. "You can barely write your own name. You're here because 'she' is going to be here."

  He kept his attention on the stage. "I like reading and I like masques."

  "Since when?" Angelo tipped the flask and let the wine arc into his mouth. "And what's the story, if you are so interested?"

  He had no idea. Attack was the best form of defense. "Are you dressed like that for a bet?"

  A moment's silence, then Angelo laughed. It was not a friendly laugh.

  "Do you really think she will be impressed with you following her around like a puppy?"

  "I'm not following." He knew it was foolish to rise to the bait. "She invited me."

  This time, Angelo's laughter was so loud people turned to stare. "She mentioned in passing that she would be here. I doubt she intended an assignation. To find you panting like a hound among the trees."

  Silence was the only safe answer.

  Angelo was having too much fun to let it go. "You've only spoken to her twice. Don't you think it is a little foolish to make so much of a passing comment?"

  Put like that, it did sound ridiculous; perhaps he had mistaken the look, the smile, she had given him. Angelo found a seat among the tree roots, keeping his apricot satin immaculate. In the dusk, he glittered like a frosted fancy. No doubt he had an assignation of his own planned. He fitted easily into this world, and he understood the rules of engagement. Edouard sighed.

  "Give me the flask," he said, and settled on the ground close by, careless of the leaves and dirt. He drank hard and held on to the flask.

  "I don't think your father would approve of this infatuation," said Angelo seriously.

  "What!" He spluttered a mouthful of wine. Mockery was one thing, serious advice from Angelo was quite another.

  Angelo was not smiling now. "Truly I don't, Edouard. There are a dozen reasons."

  Edouard swallowed and took a moment to recover, and to consider again why Angelo had insisted on joining him. "Well if it was nothing more than a passing comment, it hardly matters, does it?"

  "You should come back to Chamfort with us."

  With the campaigns and tournaments finished, the Chamfort knights were returning home. He shook his head. "I told you, I'm going to stay on with St Andre."

  "Does your father know? Has he given permission?"

  "Not exactly." He remembered what had happened in the spring when he asked to join the muster. His father had refused. Told him he was too young. That was plainly ridiculous when he could best every knight at Chamfort. The row had lasted for days. When his father eventually agreed it had been reluctantly, and with an endless list of warnings and cautions. Edouard knew quite well that he had already far exceeded the license his father had allowed him.

  "Well?" Angelo was infinitely more annoying when he was serious, and no easier to ignore.

  "I'll write to him."

  "Mercies, Edouard. He'll have a fit."

  "I'm a knight now, sworn to the King's service, and I am King's Champion. He can't find fault if the King's high commander requests my service."

  "You think not?"

  He heard a woman laugh and took a long pull of wine, swallowing hard, numbing the nagging voice telling him he was a fool. Instead, he focused on Angelo's betrayal and let it prick him to anger. "Did Gerald put you up to this?"

  "He's heard a rumor that you intend to remain at court."

  Another mouthful of wine and the anger burned brighter. "Did you tell him?"

  "No, damn you. But it's hardly a secret. Give me the wine before you make an ass of yourself."

  He threw the flask at Angelo. It missed and landed among the leaves, but left a trail of wine splattered like blood across the apricot satin. Angelo stared at it for a moment. He snarled something rude and tensed up like a hunting cat. Edouard scrambled to a crouch. There was only one possible outcome; he did not consider for a moment where they were.

  "Gentlemen!"

  They sprang up as one, jerked to their feet like marionettes. She stood upslope from them. Her low-cut gown was of indigo satin and shimmered in the torchlight. She wore a collar of pearls around her neck. Her black hair was gathered up and dressed with pearls, but not severely, and soft curls fell again
st the paleness of her skin. He had no idea how she had approached so close without them hearing.

  Angelo recovered first. "Duchess Mariette." Hair and diamonds glittered as he bowed.

  "Mariette." Edouard bowed with a good deal less grace. He felt angry, flushed and foolish. In the silence, the last of the wine dribbled from the discarded flask. He watched it with desperate attentiveness.

  "Forgive me," Angelo sounded amused. He gestured to the apricot satin. "It seems I must return to the palace and change my clothes." He smiled at Mariette and bowed again as he retreated. "My lady."

  Edouard ignored his sideways glance and bent to right the flask. "I'm sorry…" He started to apologize, but she silenced him with a smile. The crunch of Angelo's retreating footsteps faded. She smiled again and moved closer.

  It seemed her every smile gave a different message, each one more intimate. This one sent a shiver through him and brought a rush of blood to his face. She stood very close, uphill from him; the stiffened bodice of the dress accentuated the curve of her waist and the swell of her breasts. For a moment, he stared at the pale, soft flesh confined by indigo satin.

  Breathless, he dragged his gaze upwards, past delicate collarbones to the gleaming pearls and slender line of her neck, to the inviting, slightly cruel, curl of her lips. Before he could steel himself to meet her gaze, she reached out and brushed a leaf from his shoulder. Her hand drifted across his back in a light stroking movement. As she brushed the leaves and grass away, he could not help himself and shivered like a fly-bitten horse.