Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3)

by Richard Crawford

  "Don't forget this afternoon, or there will be trouble."

  "Let you and the twins down, never, I'm not that brave."

  He took the stairs at a run, and turned along the elegant corridors, passing beneath portraits, an endless array of his ancestors. Haughty and uncompromising, they glared, simpered and occasionally smiled down from the huge canvases that covered the walls of the chateau. Like so many of the men in the portraits, Charles was dark haired and tall. He had his father's looks, but he was taller and more powerfully built. He did not glance at the portraits as he passed, distracted by more pressing worries than the weight of family history.

  He arrived at the rooms where his secretaries worked. Before he reached his desk, Clement was waiting with a sheaf of papers. His chief secretary was a thin, gray haired man, precise and unexcitable. Charles nodded greeting; looking at the piles of papers, he wondered how much he could get done before his father arrived.

  "What's urgent, Clement?"

  "There are personal letters for you from Ettivar and Allesarion." The secretary set them neatly on the desk. "There are encoded messages, too." He added to the pile. "Two reports from Fourges, one on the riots and one on increased taxation and merchant activity. There is a rumor of unrest among the foreign contingent over monopolies." Clement laid these gently to one side, hesitating. "And there is a poem, celebrating your brother's triumph in the King's Tournament. It is circulating widely in Fourges, and you should perhaps read it."

  "Why?"

  "It is a well written and stirring tribute, but it might be considered somewhat inflammatory by certain people. There is little that can be done, but I thought you should be made aware."

  "Of course, thank you, Clement." Charles tried not to show his irritation. He hardly needed to be reminded of Edouard's ability to cause trouble. "Is there anything else?"

  "Mayor Arno has requested an urgent meeting."

  "What trouble has that wretched man caused now?" Charles sighed, drumming his fingers against the desk. The Mayor of Chamfort town was a pompous and determined man who had no qualms about interfering in matters beyond the boundaries of his town and his remit. The relationship between the town officials and Chamfort had become strained since Arno took office. An urgent request suggested he would be demanding some action or assistance that was beyond the powers he controlled. He would expect their help. "What does he want?"

  "He would not say, my lord, but he was most insistent."

  "Very well, but not tomorrow." He had an evil thought. "Edouard can attend as well; it's likely Mayor Arno is still exercised by the attacks on villages in the great wood. I would guess he will request our intervention, martial aid of some sort. Let's impress him with the King's Champion."

  "Yes, my lord."

  "Is that everything?" he asked without much hope.

  "The preparations for your father's birthday celebrations are in hand, but I will need your authorization and advice on some matters, and there is the tournament as well."

  "The guest list is agreed?" He waited until Clement nodded. "Eloise will make most of the decisions for the ball. And Edouard can oversee arrangements for the damn tournament; it's about time he did something useful. He can't expect to spend every day practicing and preening while the rest of us work."

  "No, my lord." Clement stepped back and bowed. "Serge will attend you as requested, before you go riding this afternoon."

  At the mention of his tailor, Charles glanced up, but the secretary's face was bland. "Thank you, Clement; my father will be here soon, so I will not need you for now."

  He was reading the ode to Edouard when his father arrived. He waved it in the air. "Have you seen this?"

  "What is it?" His father took the sheet and glanced at it, his lips quirked in a half smile. "Ah, it is nicely done; do you want to sponsor the poet?" Despite the smile, there was an edge to his father's voice, and something grim in his eyes.

  "No." He certainly did not find it funny. "And I imagine Ferdinand will not wish to either."

  "There is nothing we can do about it, Charles; there will always be things you cannot control."

  "And is Edouard one of them?"

  Rupert shook his head, a weary gesture. "No, I have spoken to him. He understands what is at stake."

  "And?"

  "We have discussed it. He will pursue no plans of his own. He knows his duty is to Chamfort."

  "You make it sound very simple." Charles could see from his father's face that it was far from so.

  "I have no reason to doubt your brother's word."

  The words were meant to end the discussion, but Charles could not let it lie. "St Andre arrives tomorrow."

  "I will speak to St Andre. He will understand that Edouard has commitments here." Rupert waved the subject away with absolute finality. "Is there anything else I should know?"

  Charles hesitated; he was far from satisfied. They did not need Edouard causing more problems. But his father had warned him off the subject. "Mayor Arno has requested a meeting. I've put him off."

  "Don't put him off too long." His father frowned. "I don't trust the man. His petty complaints regarding town matters are annoying, but I have heard enough to suspect he is capable of worse."

  "Worse?"

  "Keep an eye on him, Charles, we don't need trouble. And make sure he has no reason to interfere." His father smiled changing the subject. "What did the Vintners Guild offer you?"

  "Ten crates of Ramenai Conti wine."

  "Ten crates! That is a royal gift."

  He pulled a face at his father's choice of words, but could not deny the truth behind them. The great vineyards of Ramenai Conti were in the kingdom of Ettivar, the current and ancient enemy. Each year, the border wars between the two countries flared, and over the last few years the intensity had grown. It was in these wars Edouard had fought this spring and summer. Tension was high between the two monarchs, and Ferdinand had set an embargo on the import of goods from Ettivar. This made the exquisite wine a doubly generous and expensive gift.

  "It is unlikely that they would make you a gift of contraband wine." Prince Rupert's smile was genuine this time.

  Though he did not approve of his father's humor, even knowing he was being teased, Charles had to answer. "The bottles were laid down years ago by the Vintners, so they pre-date Ferdinand's embargo."

  "You have checked?"

  "Yes, of course."

  His father was laughing now.

  "What's wrong with exercising a little caution?"

  "Nothing, Charles, nothing at all."

  He was glad to hear his father laugh, even at his expense, for he had looked grim and strained for days now. He was still laughing when a page entered to announce Sieur Michel. One look at his friend's face and Rupert stopped laughing.

  "So, what news do you bring us?" he asked.

  Charles had risen to pour wine for them. He returned to his seat, pricked by the sudden tension.

  "I bring greetings and felicitations from the Duke. He made a point of sending you both his warmest regards." Michel smiled rather grimly. "I have made the orders for armor and horses we agreed. And I bring gossip from the city."

  "What is it?"

  Michel hesitated. "It is rumor, no more."

  "Tell me."

  "Rumor has it Duke Lorenzo has written to the King, proposing a match between his eldest son, and Eloise."

  "Our Eloise?" Charles said amazed.

  "Yes."

  Charles let his fingers drum against the soft polished wood of his desk. A match between his sister and the heir to Etrives, one might think it had much to recommend it, a marriage to link their houses in unity. But there were other implications he was loath to even consider. He turned to his father.

  "So?"

  Rupert spread his hands. "What would you have me say, Charles? Michel has brought us a rumor. If it is true, then the nature of the game is changing."

  "This is no game. Tell me what you are really thinking."

/>   His father shrugged. "A match with Eloise would make Lorenzo's eldest son a possible contender for the throne. But as Michel says, it is little more than gossip."

  "What can we do?" He asked

  "Nothing yet. Lorenzo would need Ferdinand's blessing. If he has it…" Rupert shrugged again.

  "Surely you cannot believe that Lorenzo would aim so high, would try to bypass the precedence of Chamfort's claim. He risks undermining the succession, just to set his son on the throne?" He looked to Michel.

  "Lorenzo's sons share the Vallentin bloodline, through their grandmother, your great aunt, the Grand Duchess Maria," Michel said softly. "If Ferdinand breaks the line of succession…"

  "No…" Charles began to protest, but it was true. It had always been known that if Arnaud died before Ferdinand, the King would not acknowledge or allow the natural heir, his brother, to inherit, leaving him, as Rupert's firstborn son, next in line. "But that would mean…" He did not finish, and no one present voiced his fears. Strike Chamfort from the succession, and Etrives held the best claim. A match with Eloise would strengthen that claim. But his father had four healthy sons, one of them now King's Champion and a martial hero.

  After a moment's silence, Rupert spoke. "It is good to have this warning, but I have received no approach from Lorenzo or Ferdinand. If either of them have plans for my daughter, they must at least come to me first. Let us keep this between ourselves for the present. I don't want to upset Elle."

  To suggest they could ignore such a possibility seemed dangerous to the point of madness. Charles had a host of questions, but the look on his father's face forbade further discussion. He said nothing. If his father did not want to talk of the succession, so be it. He did not raise the question of Eloise's marriage, either.

  As his father and Michel began to discuss horses and armor, Charles thought of Eloise. It was impossible to consider her as a pawn in this game, but she was of marriageable age, and he could not help thinking that if she were to marry a suitable husband, this problem would cease to exist. As his father and Michel talked, he began to make a list.

  Chapter 14

  By midafternoon, the sun shone in a cloudless sky, drying the ground to dust. In this punishing heat, the practice yards beyond the stables echoed to the clash of blades. Armor and steel glittered in the sunlight. Tired and aching, Edouard cursed himself for a fool. He watched Angelo carefully, waiting for his next attack.

  He was expecting it, but Angel was clever, and the sunlight dazzled him as the sword fell. A heartbeat too slow, he dragged his blade up. He managed to block the strike, grunting with the effort, but he was off balance and too damn close. The force of the blow knocked him back. He fell to one knee and held, just. Angelo laughed softly.

  "Now I have you." He lifted his blade but used his boot. Unprepared, the kick caught Edouard in the chest, knocking him flat. With a twist of his wrist, Angelo turned the blade; it hummed as it sliced down.

  Edouard snarled a curse and swung wildly, cutting across the stroke with every bit of strength he had. The swords met with a nasty crunch. Surprisingly, neither blade broke.

  "You bastard." Angelo took a step back, his gaze running along the length of his blade.

  Glad of the respite, Edouard scrambled to his feet. For a moment, his legs trembled; he took a quick step backwards and found his balance. Just in time, as Angelo came at him. Both blades rang true as they clashed. Two fast high strikes tested Edouard's shaky balance. He met them, but he knew he was close to breaking. He parried the third, and gasped as Angelo cut low with an ambitious reverse cut. Damn, he was tired. Angelo knew it. He was confident now. A little too confident. Breathing hard, Edouard blocked and stepped forward, cutting across towards Angelo's exposed left shoulder. The blow was deflected, but he heard Angelo curse. They were close now, swords high. Edouard turned, but Angelo read him and turned faster. As the blades met, the next attack unfolded blindingly fast. Edouard was driven back a step.

  He was going to lose and it was his own stupid fault. Angelo had played him. He had come fresh to the practice grounds to find him at the end of a hard, bad-tempered day. Angelo's casual and snide challenge, if the new King's Champion was not too tired, had been made in front of half a dozen of Chamfort's best young knights. He'd had no choice but to accept; well that was not completely true, if only he'd had the sense to think about it for a moment, but anyone who knew him could have predicted the outcome. Angelo knew him very well.

  It had started well enough. He had scored two quick hits before Angelo had found his touch; he had needed only one more to take the match. Then, just as Angelo had hit his stride, tiredness had started to slow him. The day had drained him more than he knew. The next touch had been Angelo's. Now, before an avid crowd, the fight was on the edge of turning nasty. Edouard did not want to lose. He would risk a great deal to avoid it. He did so now.

  But Angelo knew him too well. He was ready for the vicious cut to his legs, and his blade arced down in defense. He was already turning, swinging his weight, his blade gliding off the parry and cutting upwards. It was a brilliant riposte. The fourth touch was Angelo's.

  Edouard cursed, struggling for breath, longing for a mouthful of water.

  Angelo grinned. "All square, the next touch wins it."

  He nodded, his mouth too dry for words, his head aching in the heat.

  Angelo smiled and said, sympathetically, "Do you want to stop now, before you are beaten?"

  "What do you think?"

  Angelo laughed. "As long as you're sure, I don't want to hurt you."

  Edouard did not answer. It was a low blow. Their fights were legendary. After one memorable battle this summer, they had again been forbidden to spar together. That clash had ended with Edouard needing stitches and Angelo laid up with a badly broken wrist. It still rankled that his father had chosen to lay all the blame at his door, even though Angelo was two years older. Though to be fair, Angelo had been in no state to receive the lengthy lecture his father had delivered. But Edouard knew things had changed with his father before that. Ever since the fight at the village, his father had watched him like a hawk, and seemed ready to blame him for every accident or mishap.

  He took a breath. Angelo smiled and pitched his voice low enough that it would not carry to the watching crowd.

  "I don't want you whining afterwards, saying that you were tired, or some such excuse."

  He'd had enough of this. If Angelo wanted to play, they would play. It was not his fault that Angel had lost to Sieur Jeremie in the first round of the King's Championship. There was no disgrace in that. He was sure Angelo would not have minded so much if it had been anyone but him who had defeated Jeremie and taken the championship. This fight had been brewing since he returned. He met Angelo's gaze.

  "No excuses." His throat was so dry he could hardly speak. "But a victory given, is no victory. I would not deprive you." He returned the smile with a grin of his own. Angelo made no answer, but seeing the grin, his blade came up quickly.

  Edouard took a moment more. He glanced to the crowd gathered to watch, thinking his father was right; he was always watched now. At court, in Fourges, he had known there were always a number among those watching who hoped to see him fail, and that had been incentive enough. Here, at Chamfort, the spur was different. Here no one wanted to see him lose; they wanted to see him win, and so much more. Pride made it impossible to contemplate losing here. And his clever, subtle father thought that he did not care, that he had rejected Chamfort. He grinned again, and Angelo snarled.

  "Come on, then, damn you." He was moving before he finished.

  A moment later, the yard echoed to the clash of steel. Teeth bared, he drove Angelo back. But only for a few steps, as Angelo met his attack and held; steel screamed as the blades sheered their length in a jarring parry and flashed apart. The swords moved through a complex pattern, cut and parry, high and low, each strike matched almost without thought. The other knights had put up their swords and the watchers had fal
len silent.

  Then, as the sun beat down, Edouard stumbled. He twisted aside and Angelo's blade flashed past his shoulder. There was a chance in that moment, when Angelo was exposed, but he was too slow to take it. It was likely the last chance he would get, and they both knew it. As they faced each other again, Angelo smiled.

  "Just give it up."

  Edouard spat a curse and attacked with the last of his strength. For three strides, he drove Angelo back. A jarring parry brought him to a halt. Inches apart, Angelo grinned. "Is that the best you can do?"

  Past caring, he used his elbow, Not very elegant, but effective. Angelo staggered back, blood pouring from his nose. Edouard grinned as he saw Angelo's brief uncertainty. Still grinning, he took a step forward and swung. His sword arced up beneath Angelo's guard. For a moment, he thought he had done it but, with a grunt of effort, Angelo made the parry. The force of it hurt them both. Edouard recovered first. With an agonizing wrench, he twisted past Angelo's guard, and called for strength he did not have to land the final touch.

  He found the strength. It was a thing he had learned to do. Past the drills and excellence of Chamfort, through pain and beyond endurance, it was here that victory was won. On the battlefields, where men's blood spilled to win the grass where cattle and sheep would graze, it was the price for survival.

  His sword struck Angelo's breastplate with a heavy clang, the sound of victory. But it was not a touch; it was a vicious blow, worthy of a battlefield. Angelo was knocked back to land heavily on the hard ground. Edouard, standing victorious, struggled for breath and wondered what he had done. He wanted to go forward and offer Angelo his hand, to see that he was uninjured, for the move had been too extreme, the blow too heavy for practice. But he could not move. He saw Angelo stir, and a couple of squires ran forward to help him. The relief nearly made his knees buckle.

  "Are you going to fall?"