Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3)

by Richard Crawford

  Her fingers came to rest on his arm. The softest pressure drew him towards her.

  "It seems your wine is spilt," she said.

  She was mocking him; he was certain she had seen what happened. Nonetheless, her tone made his heart race. In it was a challenge, an invitation to join the game. "I thought it the act of a friend. Apricot satin and lace!" It was all he could think of. "He looked like a girl."

  She glanced down, suddenly interested in the spilled wine. There was a pause before she spoke. "Truly, it was the act of a friend."

  He caught a hint of suppressed laughter in her voice and was afraid she was making fun of him. The moment of doubt disappeared as she linked her arm through his.

  "I would not want you to go without after such a selfless act. I have wine, if you will join me?"

  He nodded, afraid to break the moment with clumsy words.

  She did not seem to mind the silence. Leading him gently, she turned uphill, out of the glade. She walked sensuously, holding her skirts with one hand, somehow graceful despite the rough ground, the twigs and fallen branches.

  As they emerged from the trees, she said, "I have a small supper laid out. It is not far, but we will attract less attention if we do not march through the undergrowth." Again, she seemed to mock him even as she offered a breathtakingly intimate invitation.

  Not trusting words or voice, he nodded. It was hard not to stare like a fool.

  Beyond the trees, they walked across a lawn of neatly trimmed grass, already damp with evening dew. To their left, the dark bulk of the palace's mismatched grandeur loomed large in the dusk, torchlight setting dozens of windows aflame. Music drifted through the trees, and snatches of song and laughter. They walked in silence. Edouard searched for something amusing to say, but every thought seemed inane or foolish, and ideas skittered beyond his reach. He was too aware of the shimmer of pale skin beyond his averted gaze, the touch of her fingers on his arm.

  She led him between the trees to a secluded bower beneath a lacework of fallen branches and ivy. Here, among cushions and mats, a supper of wine and fruit was laid out. Her maid and a servant were waiting; Edouard was almost relieved to find they would not be alone, but after seeing everything was to her wishes, she dismissed the servants.

  He listened to their retreating footsteps. Tense, as if he faced an adversary on the tourney field; the pumping of his heart was strangely at odds with each ragged breath. Far below, the masque was visible through the trees. But they were alone and sounds came only softly to the shaded hollow. He watched her hands as she poured wine. The long slender fingers with their sparkling rings moved with quick competency, somehow a contrast to her languid manner.

  "Sieur Edouard, King's Champion!" She toasted him, smiling at his mumbled protest. "Your father must be so proud."

  Why would she mention his father? It jolted him from the daze. Angelo's words returned, and a rush of uncertainty hit him harder than an unrebated lance. Swallowing, he answered, "Chamfort produces the best knights in Valderon. Victory is no less than he would expect."

  He knew it was beyond graceless, and saw surprise on her face. For a moment, she stared at him in silence.

  "But an achievement nonetheless."

  He nodded and emptied the goblet in one swallow. Immediately, she reached to fill it, leaning forward and presenting him with a distracting glimpse of cleavage.

  "So, when are you returning to Chamfort?" Again, her smile gave the question a hint of extra meaning. She reached to lift a heavy bunch of grapes, offering them to him.

  He shook his head. "I'm staying at court for the winter."

  She glanced up. "Oh? So we will not be parted."

  His heart skipped out of rhythm again. He gaped for a moment, then shut his mouth with a snap.

  She sipped her own wine, seemingly unaware of the effect she was having on him. "But what will you do?" she asked. "I do not see you enjoying an idle winter among the soft pleasures of the court."

  He wanted to say something witty about soft pleasures, but wit was far beyond him now. "The Marechal St Andre has asked me to assist him. There is much to be done before the spring campaigns."

  She set her wine aside. For the first time, he felt he had her full attention. "Surely the Marechal has aides, secretaries and men enough to attend to the details. Won't it be a sad waste of your talent? Your skills will grow rusty while you deal with the logistics of sacks of grain and flour."

  He laughed at the idea. "St Andre does not want me for a clerk. My skills will be well used." He was pleased by her interest. "The Marechal has other duties beyond foreign wars. His men uphold the King's law and keep Valderon safe from bands of brigands and malcontents."

  "And you will join his men? Will your father mind?"

  "By spring I will be ready for command," he said sharply, goaded by the familiar bitterness. "My father will understand there are opportunities to be had beyond Chamfort."

  "There must be similar opportunities at Chamfort, close to your family and friends?"

  He shrugged. "Not for me. My father has other sons. Chamfort will do well enough without me, and with St Andre I have a chance to be part of an army that will make Valderon great."

  After a moment, she smiled. He hardly knew her, and yet he had given her his dreams and ambitions. Even Angelo did not know that he planned a permanent break with Chamfort. Anxiously, he studied her profile. What was she thinking? Was she impressed? He could not read her face, but when she turned to him, there was no laughter or lightness in her gaze.

  It was dark now. A haunting melody drifted through the trees; the delicate strains of the lute overlaid by the clear notes of the flute. He watched her. She looked up and their gazes clashed, engaged and spun apart. She moved closer, reaching to choose a piece of fruit. Softly, she lifted a strawberry. Her white teeth bit deep into the flesh, but her lips held it softly. When she faced him, juice glistened on her lips.

  "Such brave ambition," she said.

  Something in her voice made him shiver. Before he could think, her hands were on his shoulders and her lips sweet against his.

  Chapter 11

  Against tradition, Mariette let her hair loose. She wore a narrow pearl headdress, allowing silky curls to fall the length of her back, displaying the beauty of her hair as an unmarried girl might. As she walked through the palace gardens, she felt the stares and heard the whispers. She knew how it annoyed the other matrons, with their hair coiled and pinned, hidden beneath demure headdresses. The thought made her smile. They could not bear that she had taken back her power, defied the custom that marriage and children made her less desirable as a woman. It galled them that she might pick and choose, and they were afraid. Their husbands did not like that she held the power of Montmercy and Broudogne, Hugo's birthright, for her son and refused the King's attempts to marry her off. She felt a little pity for the matrons, knowing that it was fear that motivated them, knowing that few of them found comfort and strength in marriage as she had with Hugo.

  But she had a task and a chosen role to play. The weakness of others was not her concern; nor would she hesitate to use it. She had found a way to take her power back, to drive away the fear. Staring ahead, haughty as a queen, she walked through the gardens, following the avenue of elms to the practice ground. Quite aware of the interest she raised. As she emerged from the trees, the shadows fell away and sunlight glittered off armor and blades. The best of the court's knights were sparring, amid shouts, curses and laughter. The din of swordplay pierced her ears and sent a thrill through her, followed by a long shiver of excitement. Her eyes searched for Edouard.

  A flash of long, dark hair, a grin to match her own arrogance, and a desire for victory that she had come to know very well. He moved like a tiger, and it seemed each day brought a new strength to his arm. The others were dull as sheep beside him. She caught her breath, surprised by the intensity of the feeling. Was that a betrayal? Shock at the thought made her pause. For a moment, the sun was too bright; she bl
inked and gripped the wall to steady herself. She forced a breath, long and steady, and raised her chin to regain her haughty poise. But she could not ignore the ache, the flush of desire that seeing him brought. Little comfort that a dozen other girls showed the same interest. But, saints of mercy, she was not a lovesick girl.

  She turned away, following the path towards the trees that lined the practice ground. Behind her, the clash of steel was sharp as lightning. The urge to look back was so strong she laced her fingers, digging nails into her palms. Holy mother, she was besotted, like all the court's maidens. A shaky breath of laughter. No, it was different. If she enjoyed being the subject of a boy's passion, it was because her body betrayed her not her heart. It was that simple.

  She heard the pound of feet and smiled, but did not slow her pace. Now she had earned the envy of the court maidens as well as the matrons. He came to her like a puppy. She glanced over her shoulder. No, not a puppy. No puppy was so fierce and dangerous. Against sense, he carried a drawn sword; his hair, grown long beyond the fashion, was wild and unkempt, his armor dented and plain, hardly fitting to his rank. His eyes were still wild from the contest. Thankfully, she had nearly reached the trees. The wall kept him from reaching her before she did. The maze was not far beyond.

  "Mariette, wait."

  She did not pause, having no intention of receiving his greeting before two score knights and a dozen young ladies. She quickened her pace towards the maze. Behind her, she heard a grunt and a curse as he negotiated the wall, no doubt setting new dents in his armor.

  She glanced back as she entered the maze. He caught her within the first few turns. A hand on her arm, gauntlets nearly ripping the silk; her hand was on his breastplate to hold him off even as she reached for his lips. Despite her efforts, his lovemaking was inclined toward the brutal. The kiss became a tumbling grope, hopeless in armor and gauntlets. Her dress suffered; her hair was caught and tugged ungently. Her back to the hedge, leaves tickled her neck and twigs prickled her skin. The sound of voices and dogs yapping came through the leaves.

  "Edouard, wait." If he heard her, he took no notice. She grabbed his long hair and tugged him off like a dog, earning an offended blue stare.

  "There are people close by. Have some sense," she hissed.

  He looked shamefaced for a moment. She offered her arm. "Walk with me." The voices were closer; quickly she smoothed her gown and hair, hoping she did not look as if she had been dragged through a hedge backwards. Not that anyone would jump to that conclusion. "Do I look neat?"

  "Beautiful," he said, lifting and kissing her hand.

  She smiled, though she meant to be stern. "So?"

  "I have news." He led her out of the maze, away from the sound of voices. His long stride, and impatience, ill-suited to strolling between hedges. "My father has summoned me home to Chamfort." He made it sound like the end of the world.

  She did not answer at once. Her first feeling was relief. She did not like his closeness with St Andre, though she did not for a moment doubt Edouard. He was ambitious, naïve and headstrong, but she was certain he was true. But at present, he had only one desire and saw only one means to fulfill his duty: the sword. Skill at arms came easily to him and offered an easy path. Violence came easily, too, and victory fed his pride. He reminded her of Jaime; he was just as rash. It was not his fault that his birth made him subject to the intrigues of the court. He had the look of his mother and, in some other ways, it was hard to believe him Rupert's son. Nor could she believe Rupert had failed to guide him better. For both their sakes, she would see him tamed before the wildness in him grew too strong to govern.

  She had delayed her answer too long, and in so doing stung his pride.

  "You don't care if I leave court?"

  She laughed at him, turning it to a tease. "Why would I care?"

  He looked away, turned down lips giving his face an arrogant cast.

  Tempting as it was to laugh again, she knew better than to stir his temper, and in truth, there were reasons she was sorry. She tightened her grip on his arm. "It was bound to come that one of us would leave. But I shall be at Chamfort soon for your father's birthday. I will come early for you."

  "You will?" he said, eager as a puppy, all trace of arrogance gone.

  "Of course," she said and let him kiss her, when really she should slap him for stupidity. He had no artifice and scorned its use. She had tried to show him the need, but without success.

  And his directness affected her; sometimes it was hard to remember where the game began and ended. With the others she had played, there had been no doubt. Well, perhaps there had been one other, but that one had near matched her: a pirate in love and trade. Newly returned to court, half-mad with grief, she had sailed far too close to the wind with Roslaire de Lyon. She smiled at the memory. It was good that he had left court when he did.

  But for now, there was Edouard, his hands hard on her shoulders, his lips eager on hers. They were sheltered by the trees and alone, not that she made a secret of their affair. That was not how she had chosen to play the game. But again it was different with him. With the others a measure of secrecy and pretense had been necessary, though nothing was truly secret, and she had seen to it the gossips had all they needed to damn her. With Roslaire, she had been obvious; they indulged a public and well-matched affair. She had courted the gossip to cement her new role.

  But now her tastes were well known and set in the minds and gossip of the court. How easy it was to win a bad reputation. For the first time, there was more at stake. She hesitated to admit she had mis-stepped, but Edouard was nephew to the King; their affair attracted notice, and if she suffered for it, so would he. She was more than glad he was called back to Chamfort; indeed she had had a hand in it.

  Chapter 12

  Edouard munched an apple as he walked across the immaculate Chamfort lawns. Behind him, the rising sun was dazzling against the chateau's pale walls. By midday it would be blistering hot. Edouard lengthened his stride, heading for the stables. His father was away from Chamfort for the morning, and the chance to ride and train without being watched and judged was a welcome relief.

  He could not get used to being back at Chamfort. The comfortable place he had once held among the squires and knights was gone forever. Now he was a knight and King's Champion. The squires treated him with awe. The younger knights treated him with wary respect, though he knew every one of them longed to best him. None more so than Angelo. The thought made him grin; Angel would wait a bloody long time before he enjoyed that pleasure. But his father's friends, the senior knights, were the worst. Apart from a few of them, he could almost feel their doubt and disapproval. But most of all, it was a strain to be back under his father's watchful eye.

  There was no denying that he had defied his father's instructions and gone his own way. It seemed that, in his father's eyes, the success he had won did not outweigh this disobedience. If his father had not been inclined to trust him before, now he was openly suspicious and critical. It made being forced to return doubly hard. Away from Chamfort, he had tasted freedom and success. He had won St Andre's trust and approval. The King's first general saw nothing wrong in his success or ambition. Why should it displease his father so much?

  It was not the only freedom he missed. Edouard sighed; very different pleasures of the court were also denied him at Chamfort. He missed Mariette. He was afraid she would not miss him. It made him ache to think of her. She was coming to Chamfort for his father's birthday, but he hardly knew what to expect when she came. He had been careful to make sure his father knew nothing about their liaison. No doubt Prince Rupert would disapprove. Edouard knew that if she still wanted him, he would not give her up.

  He reached the stables and entered the cool stone building, savoring the smell of fresh hay and horse. In the armory, he discovered an over keen squire had taken his armor to polish. After hunting around, he scrounged up a replacement cuirass and grieves and set off for Bluesteel's stall. In a year his bi
rthday colt had matured into a magnificent stallion. The sight of him made Edouard proud. Recognizing his footfall, Bluesteel gave a soft whicker. Rico had groomed the stallion's dappled coat until it shone. The boy was now settling the saddle in place.

  "Morning, Sieur Edouard, King's Champion." The stable boy grinned as he bent to reach for the girth.

  "No need for you to list my titles every morning, Rico." Edouard let Bluesteel lip the apple core from his palm, and then dodged the stallion's nipping teeth as Rico pulled the girth tight.

  "But I like the sound of it, Sieur."

  Edouard returned the boy's grin. He liked the sound of it well enough himself. But there were others annoyed enough with him already. A glance showed him Sieur Gerald was close by, checking his horse's tack. Edouard weathered his frown, but said nothing to the boy. It was not something Rico would understand.

  He had rested Bluesteel the day before and the stallion was fresh, sidling and prancing as he tried to mount, bucking before his backside even touched the saddle. Rico laughed as the stallion cantered sideways, tearing divots from the stable lawn.

  "I'll see to it, Sieur," the boy promised.

  Looking back with a grin, Edouard raised a hand in thanks as Bluesteel clattered beneath the archway.

  It took him an hour of schooling to settle the stallion to the point where he could work on the high school moves that formed the basis of the training. Moves that harnessed the stallion's strength and obedience, and that mirrored those used on the battlefield. From a canter, Edouard reined to a near halt. A shift of weight in the saddle, a touch of his spurs and Bluesteel spun in a pirouette, turning effortlessly on his haunches. The movement so graceful and easy, it seemed the stallion was dancing. Then with a touch of his spurs, Edouard urged the stallion to a canter. They surged across the arena and he brought his sword flashing down in a glittering arc, decapitating an imaginary foe.