He stood a head taller than most men, long limbed, powerful; even beneath a courtier's tawny velvet, the width of his shoulders was plain. But the weight of muscle, the deceptive speed and co-ordination could be missed. St Andre carried himself differently at court. He held something back; Edouard had seen him in action on a battlefield, and the court persona did not fool him. St Andre stood, apparently relaxed, one callused hand resting casually on the dagger at his belt. It was a familiar and deceptive pose.
Edouard cleared his throat. "Marechal."
St Andre turned. Beneath close-cropped brown hair, his tanned face was habitually guarded. It was a striking face, shrewd, unforgiving hazel eyes, old scars including the broken line of his nose, a touch of temper around the mouth. From this man, the slightest glimmer of expression was enough, and few dared provoke his temper. A man used to being obeyed. A man who tolerated only one master.
Under that unforgiving regard, Edouard straightened his shoulders, wishing he had taken the time to change from riding leathers, painfully aware he smelled of horses and sweat. He felt awkward, certain that somehow the Marechal had already learned of his change of plans. Then St Andre smiled.
"Edouard, it's good to see you again." He crossed the room and offered his hand. Edouard nearly winced at the strength of the Marechal's grip. His other hand came to rest on Edouard's shoulder, drawing him towards a chair. "I'm glad to see you are working hard."
Reminded of his stained riding leathers, Edouard drew back so that he did not sully St Andre's immaculate velvet with the stink of the stables. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "I should have changed first."
"No. I've smelt worse." St Andre laughed and urged him towards a seat. "Wine?" He poured for them both. "So, tell me, Edouard. What's it like to return home a hero? Your father must be thrilled to have the King's Champion at Chamfort?"
It was so uncomfortably far from the truth, Edouard nearly choked on his wine.
St Andre's lips quirked in a half smile, and he continued, "I believe you have beaten him to the title by a year? But I am sure he is too proud of your accomplishment to care about that."
Edouard was not inclined to tell St Andre an outright lie, but he couldn't quite bring himself to admit the truth of it. "Was there something particular you wanted me for?" he asked, determined to move away from the subject. If the question was too abrupt, St Andre did not seem to notice.
"Yes, I wanted to ask you for a favor, Edouard."
"Of course, I would be pleased to help." He did not hesitate though he knew it was against his father's instructions.
"I wish to meet with the local Mayor, do you know him?"
"Mayor Arno, yes, I know him." He paused, but there was no way he could be polite about the Mayor. "Are you sure you have the right man? He is a pompous fool, and best avoided. Even my brother cannot stand him."
St Andre laughed. "No doubt you're right, but there is a matter I must discuss with him. I would prefer to meet him within the chateau grounds, but somewhere private. There is a family chapel?"
"Yes, but it is small and often visited, not that private." Edouard thought for a moment. "Except for the crypt," he said dubiously.
"The crypt will be fine. Late this afternoon." St Andre took a sip of wine. "I would be grateful if you could send the request in your name, and if you would join me to make the introductions. The Mayor need not come through the main gates?"
"There is a path through the cliffs if you really desire secrecy." The Marechal did not answer. "Of course, I will see to it at once." It was a strange request, but he hardly thought about it, too preoccupied with trying to find the words to broach his own news. He set the empty wine glass aside. "I realize I owe you a great deal."
St Andre laughed. "Edouard, you are Chamfort born and bred. Your father would be furious, and rightly so, if I took credit for your skill and training."
"But you have given me the opportunities and supported me against…" It was not something they spoke of, but he said it anyway. "I know Ferdinand did not want to grant my knighthood this year."
St Andre waved the idea away. "It was your accomplishments on the battlefield that convinced him."
Edouard knew it had not been that easy. The King had been determined to dismiss his accomplishments as a boy's luck, and vain glorious bragging. He had heard that story from a dozen sources, and he did not doubt it was true. "He would not have given it to me without your insistent support."
"Your successes are your own, Edouard. I did not win you the King's Championship."
"But without you, none of it would have been possible. I want you to know I appreciate everything you have done for me."
St Andre studied him for a moment. "Edouard, if you have something to tell me, speak out. There is an ominous note to this discussion."
"I can't join you as I promised." After all his efforts to prepare, he blurted it out like a fool. "I must remain at Chamfort."
"What?"
"I know I made a commitment, but things have changed. I will not be able to join your command staff."
The Marechal shifted, a minute change of position, but all sense of ease between them was gone. "When we parted six weeks ago, you were keen to make such a commitment. What has changed?"
"I'm needed at Chamfort."
"What for? Chamfort is hardly short of knights, or grooms."
Edouard ignored the gibe. "It is a difficult time. I'm needed at home."
"Edouard, I can understand that you have a duty to your family. But I will need a better explanation if I am to understand why you renege on a commitment made just weeks ago. A commitment I have taken very seriously." St Andre came to his feet, a towering presence. "You have had a better offer?"
"No, of course not."
"What, then? Give me a reason." His voice held a familiar crack of command.
Edouard stood up. Tall as he was, he still had to look up to meet St Andre's gaze. "I have given you my only reason. I'm sorry to disappoint you." He knew it was not enough. But his father would not expect him to discuss Chamfort's problems with St Andre. And perhaps there was a reason why he should have left the explanations to his father, and yet he still believed the Marechal deserved to hear this from him. "My father will explain. I will make the arrangements for the meeting with Mayor Arno at once." He started to turn away, thinking to end the conversation before it became too awkward.
"If you joined me, I planned to offer you a command next spring."
He stopped. Turned back, slowly, certain he had misheard. "But I don't have the experience…"
"Saint's blood, Edouard, you defeated the best of Valderon to become King's Champion. After that, who else would I choose?" The Marechal's voice held an ominous note. "I thought you would appreciate the honor. That you would be eager for such a challenge. Clearly I was mistaken."
"I do, I am…" He was stunned. He could not believe St Andre would consider him ready. Or that he must turn him down.
To be King's Champion and be offered command of a wing of the army, it was everything he had ever wanted. There had to be a way to make it happen. But the idea went against everything his father had spoken of. He would never allow it. Another thought came to him with a rush of bitterness. "Ferdinand would never allow me command in his army."
St Andre shook his head, a slight, rigid movement that betrayed the scale of his anger. "Ferdinand does not decide who commands the Valzurri. I do."
"The Valzurri!" It was a dream come true.
"Yes, Edouard."
He took a breath, hardly able to form the words. "You do me too great an honor. But it is an honor I must refuse, however much I might wish otherwise. I hope you will understand."
The Marechal turned away. He walked to the window, letting the silence stretch. When he turned back, his face was grim. "I am not unaware of the difficulties Chamfort faces. Or perhaps I should say, opportunities. It is common knowledge your brother has hopes of the throne. But the succession is a dangerous coil, and I would advise you to
stay clear of it, Edouard."
"I'm not interested in the damn succession…" He shook his head, knowing how stupid that must sound. "Of course I'm interested, but not in playing some part in Charles's plans. I would only hinder them. Saints of mercy, my father already thinks I have." He stopped, aware he had said too much.
A moment's silence, then St Andre said, "Ah, now I begin to understand." The Marechal gave a slight nod, dismissing the earlier tension. "I have been unfair. I will not press you further, Edouard. But it is something I will discuss with your father, if you don't mind."
"Of course not. If you can convince him, then I would have no objection. I doubt that he will change his mind."
"Maybe not, but perhaps I can find a way to reassure him. Convince him there is an advantage." St Andre laid a hand on his shoulder. "I set too great a value on you to give our association up so easily."
He could not have hoped for more, and he was glad that he had spoken to St Andre himself. It had come out well enough, despite his father's lack of faith.
"After everything you have done for me, reneging on my commitment is the last thing I would want to do. But you must understand I cannot refuse my father." After a moment, he added, "Nor would I want to."
St Andre smiled, but before he could answer, there was a brief knock and the door opened. The man who entered was short and stocky, with dark hair and a beard that covered most of his face. Despite this, beneath hooded eyes his features had a cruel look. Baron Joachim, St Andre's chief aide. He commanded St Andre's household and bodyguard. There was no doubting his ability, but Edouard could not like the man. And he was certain the feeling was mutual.
Joachim was carrying a dispatch bag. "Urgent, from Fourges, my lord." He acknowledged Edouard with the slightest nod.
"Edouard, you will have to excuse me." St Andre moved towards the desk. "I will see you later, the meeting with the Mayor."
"I will see to it at once." He left, closing the door softly. St Andre wanted to offer him a command. He grinned. Surely his father would understand what an honor that was. An honor and a duty; how could his father refuse St Andre?
Chapter 19
Remy raised his arm with a flourish and leapt to attack. He cut forward, with sweeping strokes and bold strides; a diving lunge pierced his enemy's guard. A killer blow. He turned, raising his sword to salute the cheering crowds. Then, at their encouragement, he turned back to dispatch his opponent. The blade slid effortlessly home. Remy whirled, arms raised in triumph.
Leaving his stick buried in the hedge, Remy turned away. He picked up his livery coat and brushed the grass off. The sun was still hot, and he shoved the coat carelessly under his arm. For a moment, he thought of his fellow squires, trapped in a stuffy schoolroom listening to Master Bernard. Remy knew he should have returned there as soon as his errand was completed, and he had meant to, but he had lingered at the practice arenas watching the knights until one of the senior squires sent him away. Then the sun was too warm, the day too beautiful, the possibilities for adventure too many, to consider returning to a gloomy schoolroom.
Instead, he had set off to explore the wild gardens. Beyond the neat hedges, borders and paths of the formal gardens, the wild gardens were a riot of wild flowers, trees, hidden glades and streams, all within the chateau's perimeter wall. It was unlikely he would be caught skiving in these deserted wilds. It was a risk, but after a season at Chamfort, he had learned to appreciate free time and the rare chance for play. Now, as the sun edged to the west, Remy reluctantly turned back, wondering how he would explain his extended absence to Master Bernard.
He had lost his bearings, but it was easy enough to find his way. The chateau's south face and turreted skyline rose high above the trees. He stared at its intricate beauty, and suddenly had an idea of the power and wealth it signified. For a moment he felt insignificant, and a little afraid. The feeling passed as he discovered an overgrown and winding path. He set off to explore. After a time, the path brought him out somewhere near the south terrace, and Remy turned to follow the tall hedge and bank which sheltered the private lawns. He was about to put on his livery coat when he heard laughter. It came from beyond the dense yew hedge.
With a grin, Remy dropped to his knees. This was a squire's dream come true. He pushed his way beneath the hedge, feeling the unseen tug of spiders' webs across his face, and smothering a sneeze at the strong green fragrance. When he could see the garden beyond the hedge, his grin grew wider. Below, on the lawns of the south terrace, the young ladies of Chateau Chamfort gathered. He saw her at once, the Lady Eloise, Prince Rupert's only daughter. Remy gazed in awe at the object of his desire. In his dreams, he had rescued her from a hundred perils, to be rewarded by kisses and other tokens of her affection.
She was walking arm in arm with one of her friends; her pale blue dress trailed the grass. He knew it matched the color of her eyes, for he studied her portrait every time he passed. Her dark hair fell the length of her slender back to end in a bounce of curls. She was laughing. He felt a twinge of jealousy, wishing he could share her laughter. Briefly, he thought of his fellow squires and how jealous they would be of his good fortune. Then he squirmed into a comfortable position and lay watching. Distracted by the girls, he no longer worried about explaining an afternoon's absence.
It was warm beneath the hedge, and Remy lost all track of time. The afternoon drifted by as he lay dreaming. Then there was a sudden stir among the girls. Remy looked up. He forgot for a moment where he was and tried to sit up. It took a moment to free his hair from the hedge; when he could see again, Sieur Edouard had reached the lawn. Some of the girls moved to intercept him. He smiled and waved greeting to his sister's friends.
It did not seem that he was going to stop until Eloise called out to him and he came to a reluctant halt. He stood waiting as his sister and her friends approached. Soon he was surrounded. A laughing argument ensued. It was clear that the ladies wanted Sieur Edouard to join them in a game, and that he had refused. He appealed to his sister and Remy guessed, from snatches of conversation, that he had won a reprieve against some future promise.
As Edouard de Chamfort headed away across the lawns, Remy scrambled free of the hedge. He stood for a moment, wondering which way was best, and then chose a path and set off at a run. The path arrived at an avenue of trees; straight ahead lay the practice yards and stables. Guessing that was where Sieur Edouard would head, Remy crouched behind a tree, watching for his quarry.
####
One of the girls had given him a ribbon. As he made his way towards the chapel, Edouard slipped the pink silk between his fingers and smiled. But he was not thinking about Eloise's friend. Mariette would be at Chamfort within the week. He grinned in anticipation and then, with a familiar surge of anger, remembered his father's warning. Damn him for interfering. It was an order that would be near impossible to obey. He thought of her constantly. It was not an order he wanted to obey, but Mariette was a friend of his father, and he owed her the truth. Likely, she would not go against the Prince's wishes.
He lengthened his stride, glad that he had agreed to help St Andre in defiance of his father's wishes. Perhaps if his father saw how well St Andre trusted him, he would change his mind. Leaving the formal gardens behind, he turned to follow an avenue of elm trees. The chapel was set at the very edge of the gardens, high on the limestone cliffs that overlooked Chamfort town. An old path led up through the cliffs to the chapel, and he went first to unlock the gate, leaving it open for Mayor Arno.
Inside, the small chapel was cool after the sun. Stained glass windows tinted the light to dappled blood red shadows. The stairs down to the crypt were hidden beside the altar. As he reached them, the chapel door creaked. Edouard stopped and turned back.
"Mayor Arno?" The door swung open, spreading sunlight across the porch, but no one entered or answered.
After a moment, he turned and started down the worn stone steps. At the bottom, the steps led to a tunnel with walls that curved into the
ceiling just inches above his head. Torches were already burning in sconces along the walls, reminding him that his father visited the crypt every day.
The tunnel ended, and he was among the first of the tombs. Heavy, dark marble sarcophagi raised on plinths, some near as tall as his head. Many were mounted with the statues of knights and their ladies. He had always hated this place. When they were young, Charles had told him the figures were sleeping. He had told him that they would awake at night and come after him, stealing him from his bed to join them in the cold dark, crypt. Edouard still retained something of his childhood fear of the place.
He had been barely five years old when his mother died, but he remembered coming here with his father, Charles and Eloise. It had been a daily pilgrimage until Charles's taunts took hold and the nightmares started. He shied away from that thought. Afterwards his father had not brought him on the daily pilgrimage with Charles and Elle. Edouard remembered how, despite his fear, he had hated being left behind with the twins, just babies then. How he had hated it when Charles had laughed and called him a baby.
He dismissed that memory; his brother could not fault his courage now. Charles had lost to him once on the tourney ground, and that had been enough. His elder brother would not face him again in direct combat. Edouard grinned again at the thought; Charles would not risk his precious pride and dignity to another defeat.
His thoughts turned to the Valzurri; the desire was almost an ache in his chest. The elite knights embodied all he had worked for. He had ridden with them once in battle, and then again in the aftermath of the summer campaigns as they cleared the border villages of rebels and traitors. Even then, he had felt he belonged among them. Several of the Valzurri knights had accompanied St Andre to Chamfort. The King had sent orders to clear brigands from the Chamfort woods. Edouard wondered if he might ride with them. He was determined to find a way, with or without his father's blessing.
Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3) Page 18
