It took him all morning to find the road again. Racked by feverish chills, his sense of direction lost, he stumbled miserably through the forest. The ground rose and fell, plunging him up and down through strength sapping hollows. The dark, ancient trees towered above, branches interlocking to shut out the light, making the air feel damp and cold. Beneath them, the thick carpet of leaves provided treacherous footing, and oozing mud clogged any track. Struggling to keep going, Remy began to doubt he would ever find the road again, even as every moment he hoped for a sight of it. Then suddenly it was there in front of him. He scrambled clear of another overgrown hollow and stood gazing down at it.
The road was very old. Over the years, it had worn a deep cutting through the wood and now it was bordered by tall banks. The forest crept along the edge of these banks; branches arched high above, and roots poked from the sloping earth to weave intricate shapes. There was no easy way down to the road; the banks were wet and treacherous. After a moment's thought, Remy sat down safely at the top and settled to wait. From up high, he could see a fair distance either way. It was mid-morning now, and he was sure that someone must soon pass by. Dazed with exhaustion and illness, he sat in a daze until he caught sight of a cart approaching.
Anxiously, he studied it; a rough farm wagon full of beets and drawn by a huge carthorse, with just one man sat hunched on the high seat. After a moment's hesitation, Remy scrambled and slid down the bank. He landed in the road, coughing.
As the cart drew nearer, he looked up at the driver. The grim-faced man eyed him with suspicion. But Remy was desperate. "Please, sir, could I travel with you?"
The cart drew level, but the farmer made no attempt to halt. He glared down at Remy and then cracked the whip, urging his horse on.
Wheezing with effort, Remy trotted alongside and tried again. "Please, sir."
"Be off with you, don't be bothering me," the farmer growled, flicking his long whip toward Remy.
Remy cowered back and the cart trundled on. As it disappeared down the road, he dropped to the ground. The last of his strength was spent. Too tired to move, he huddled beside the road, sank his head onto his arms, and tried not to cry. The day crept on unnoticed, and it was afternoon before he roused again. Looking up, he saw two horsemen approaching. They were dressed for riding in dark leathers, and they were well armed. Memories of Simon's murder rushed back. Remy felt his heart race. He struggled to his feet, searching for a way up the bank and back to the cover of the woods. He started to climb and slipped back. He glanced over his shoulder. The riders were closer now. They had noticed him. One of them gestured.
Coughing, and breathless with panic, Remy tried to climb the bank again. He barely reached halfway before sliding back. The riders increased their pace. Desperate to escape, he began to run along the road. Behind him, pounding hooves warned of the riders' fast approach. With a last burst of effort, Remy flung himself at the bank and scrambled for the top. The effort made him cough and choke.
He had almost reached the top when his feet start to slip. Desperately, he grabbed for the ferns and bushes above him. He grabbed a handful of leaves and managed to hold on, halting his slide. The riders arrived and stopped on the road below him. Remy braced against the ferns and edged his feet slowly upwards. He was nearly there, but as he made the last effort, his hands slipped from the ferns. He felt himself falling. Helpless, he tumbled backwards, rolling down the bank to land sprawled near the horses' feet. One of the riders shouted. Remy scrambled up. He spun around and started to run, but he only covered a few paces before his legs buckled. The world tilted, and as the sky spiraled away, he dropped unconscious to the roadway.
He awoke to the sight of trees, and sunlight dancing through leaves interlaced high above. He lay where he had fallen. A thick cloak had been laid over him, and his head was pillowed on something soft. Remy drifted towards consciousness, gradually aware that someone was nearby.
A young man paced into view and, without pausing, disappeared from Remy's sight. Slender and intense, the man wore riding leathers; his shoulder length tawny hair was tied back. A fine sword and dagger hung at his hip. His hand lingered close to his sword hilt, and he looked well capable of using it. To Remy, his impatient prowling suggested a temper to match its cut. Remy watched him nervously, but as time passed and the man paid him little attention, Remy drifted into dreams of running and terror.
Chapter 24
Mariette's coach rattled north along the King's road, leaving Fourges and the court far behind. Mariette gazed through the windows and let her thoughts drift. She was well guarded. Stefan, a dozen men and a small baggage train followed behind, with her wolfhounds running alongside the coach. She breathed a deep sigh; suddenly the relief at escaping the court felt like the warmth of sunlight breaking through clouds. A day and a half away from Fourges and at last she was free of the whispers, the stares. She had not realized how much it weighed on her. The deception might be her choice, but that had not made it easy to live with. Even before Piers's ambush. The thought of him made her fingers clench as if she still held the dagger.
Before she left Fourges, she had received a note from Diane. The Countess had apologized if her son had been tactless, and assured her that his concern was for Francis and Montmercy. She had made a pretty joke, certain that the incident with the dagger was itself a joke, intended to take Piers down a peg or two. But there was a warning beneath the polite words. Diane would defend her own. Mariette smiled grimly. She would not have hesitated to use the dagger; just as Diane would defend her sons, so she would defend Francis and his birthright. But she did not want to think of Diane, or her cursed sons.
She thought instead of Edouard and Chamfort, suppressing a thread of pleasurable anticipation. He would be waiting for her, as ardent as when he left court. She did not doubt it. And Chamfort was one of her favorite places. The beautiful chateau set among ancient woods. Although not that close in age, Rupert and Hugo had been good friends. Pushed out of Fourges and out of court affairs by his brother's jealousy, she thought the Prince had valued the friendship of a man who understood the pressures and responsibilities of his role. Hugo had been a steadfast friend, unconcerned by Ferdinand's disapproval. Since Hugo's death, it was different. Rupert had always been the perfect host, but now he showed her particular kindness. His attention comforted and soothed her. He was one of the few people she could trust, someone she could always turn to in a time of trouble.
But that was not the reason for her anticipation. If anything, Rupert's kindness now brought its own problems. She was not sure how he would feel about her affair with his son. When she began the affair with Edouard, it had been half to spite Mathieu and Jai, but also because she believed it was the best and quickest way to prove Rupert's son innocent. Her concern had been for Rupert. He had enough to contend with; she wanted to protect him from further trouble.
Only a fool could be blind to the tensions surrounding Chamfort. Hugo had been fiercely loyal to his friends, in good times and bad. After all he had done for her, she was determined to help Rupert in any way she could. She had no doubt of his son's innocence. But she was not sure he had given his loyalty wisely. She had come to know Edouard, and to find in him something more than she had expected.
It had been easy enough to set the hook. Once hooked, she let him run, reeling him so gently that he thought he was the pursuer. But when she made it clear he was chosen, he had fallen hard. It scared her a little.
She was aware of how closely the court was watching. There was much at stake for them both. It was her game, not his. Most of the young knights who paid her court did so, at least in part, for the kudos of being the one to catch her interest. Despite a fiercely competitive nature, Edouard seemed to find the idea that this was another contest unbearable, as if he could not risk so much. She wondered what made him so cautious. But he came to her anyway, and that he showed such trust pleased her.
Another surprise was that he lacked polish; arrogance seemed to be his only t
ool for dealing with the glitter and spite of the court. She was surprised by this too. Rupert was a cultured man; even far removed from court, he had gathered about him men of learning, and masters of music and art. Chamfort was no backwater castle given over to rough martial skill and talk of horses, hounds and battlegrounds.
The very thought made her smile. But Edouard, while he had languages and learning, did not have the social skill necessary for survival at court. He could not act or dissemble. He had little time for word games or wit, and even the most harmless games and teases annoyed him. A perceived slight would leave him brooding and distant. At first, it was an effort to accommodate his bad temper. But as she came to know him better, she discovered it was not arrogance or pride that provoked these outbursts but a surprising insecurity.
It was a strange contrast. As King's Champion, he was feted by the court, despite Ferdinand's seething dislike, which hardly seemed to trouble Edouard. Sometimes she thought he relished it and even went out of his way to annoy Ferdinand. The city folk cheered him in the streets. He seemed to take it all as his due. More than a few of the older knights were determined to test the new King's Champion, taking their challenges to the limit of what was acceptable. Edouard met every martial challenge with confidence that crossed the border into arrogance.
In the weeks following the tournament, he remained undefeated and answered every doubter. In the process, he built a formidable reputation. One part of her could understand why Mathieu and Jai were concerned. From nowhere he had become a figure to be reckoned with, and there was no doubt he was St Andre's devoted acolyte. He could not find enough words to praise the Marechal. It was his stated wish to join his command.
But she found she could not doubt him. She did not compare him to Hugo; they were too different to warrant comparison. But nonetheless she sensed one similarity between them: Edouard had a true heart. She was certain of it. Just as she was certain that Rupert would never do anything to justify Ferdinand's jealousy and suspicion. Edouard undoubtedly enjoyed irritating Ferdinand, but he adored his cousin. And she thought love for Arnaud would always keep him from true conflict with the King. She was not sure what motivated Edouard, but it was not wisdom or fear; he often seemed to set himself against both.
They would have to be discreet at Chamfort, but they would have freedom they did not have at court. Edouard was passionate. It was a heady feeling to inspire such passion. Mariette smiled and let her eyes drift closed. Guilt assailed her, but she pushed it aside. Among the madness, was she not allowed a moment of pleasure?
The rider reached them in the afternoon. She heard the urgent clatter of hooves. Then the wolfhounds gave tongue, followed by shouts from her Captain. The disturbance rippled along the neat ranks of her party. Sophie pushed aside the hangings.
Stefan rode alongside the carriage. "A rider, my lady, with an urgent message. He claims he is a member of the Compact."
She nodded. The carriage had slowed to a walk. When it halted, Stefan came to open the door. She stepped down. They were among the trees of the Chamfort woods, but the road was wide and well maintained.
A man stood beyond Stefan. He was tall, plainly dressed, with roughly cut black hair and muscled like a fighter. His face was terribly scarred. He bowed.
"My lady, I am Bruno. I travel with Jaime. We are here to serve the Compact. I bring an urgent request for your help, if it pleases you to hear me?"
It did not please her. But she nodded anyway.
"We have been watching Chamfort–"
"On whose orders?" She was immediately furious. "It is my task. Mathieu promised no one would interfere."
"St Andre is there, my lady."
She nodded once, still displeased. "Go on."
"Not long after the Marechal arrived, the town Mayor was murdered. At the same time a squire went missing from the chateau and a man in the town was murdered. The murdered man was a friend of the boy's father. It seemed possible the boy had gone to him for help. The boy disappeared." He stepped closer. "We have found the boy, my lady, but he is sick. We need your help."
She took a moment, and tried to remember that this man was not to blame. "Why not see to the boy yourselves?"
"We have to return to Chamfort," he said. "The Marechal is there with some of his knights. They must be watched. The boy is sick and likely in trouble. Jaime did not want to leave him alone."
"I am going to Chamfort, what am I supposed to do with this boy?" The familiar anger was back, the tension mounting within her until she felt she must have a target to lash out at. The man before her was not a fair target for her rage.
"Jaime thinks something is happening at Chamfort." Bruno hesitated. "The boy may have seen or heard something. Something important. He thinks we should keep him close."
She turned and walked a few paces to the edge of the road. The wolfhounds came bounding up to her. She laid a hand against Keela's silky head, trying to think beyond her anger. The boy needed help, and comfort, most like. Jai was not the one to give either. She was not expected at Chamfort for a few days. Tonight she had made arrangements to stay at an inn; it was a place she used regularly, and she trusted the innkeeper. She could take the boy there and see he was cared for.
"Very well," she said, turning back. "Where is this boy?"
"It is some distance, my lady."
"We best hurry, then." She glanced to Stefan. He nodded once and went to make the necessary preparations.
She climbed back into the carriage, settling among cushions as the carriage jolted forward. The driver cracked his whip and the horses surged to a trot and quickly to a canter. Sophie watched her in silence.
"You heard?"
Sophie nodded. "What will you do?"
"See the boy cared for and then go on to Chamfort."
"And the boy?"
She shrugged. "I will go to Chamfort."
It was dusk when they came to the place where Jai was waiting, pacing the road like a caged tiger. Mariette swung the door open and stepped down. The boy lay by the side of the road. She stepped past Jai and went to him, flinging words over her shoulder. "Could you not have found somewhere warmer?"
He shrugged. "I had to wait where Bruno could find us."
"At least you had the sense to cover him." She bent down, laying a hand against the boy's forehead. "Saints of mercy, Jai, the boy is really sick, he's burning up."
"I know, but what could I do?"
She did not answer. "Get him into the carriage, quickly."
He moved to obey her and then hesitated. "Are you taking him to Montmercy?"
"No."
"What, then?"
It was the same every time she saw him, black anger and denial. She did not want to look at him. Quietly, Bruno moved back, leaving them alone. "I'm taking him to the inn, they are expecting me. We can care for him there. When he is better, I will decide what to do with him." She looked at him for a moment. "I'm still going to Chamfort."
He scowled. "So you will abandon the boy?
"No, he can come with me if necessary."
"What, are you mad, you can't take him back there."
Bruno moved further away.
She glanced to him and turned back to Jai. "Before you tell me what I can do, you might remember that you asked for my help." She looked to her Captain. "Stefan, get the boy inside."
Before he could obey, Jai bent to lift the boy, carrying him quickly to the carriage. She followed, standing by the door as Jai and Sophie settled the boy. Jai blocked Mariette's way as she approached.
"Think hard before taking the boy to Chamfort. There is a good chance he will be in danger there."
"I can protect him."
"You have a task…"
"And I will fulfill it." She turned away as the anger seethed, bringing her to the limits of her control. He caught her arm, halting her again before she reached the carriage. She turned on him. Seeing the look on her face, he let go of her arm and stepped back. His face was tight, eyes haunted.
"I just want you to be careful, Mariette."
She ignored him, and for once he had the sense to remain silent. Stefan came forward to help her into the carriage. Inside, Sophie was busily tending to the boy. His breath came in wheezing gasps, and he was pale and clammy. She glanced to her Captain.
"To the inn, quickly," she said.
As the carriage rolled away, she did not look back.
Chapter 25
The Swan Inn was popular with travelers, and always busy. It helped that the village of Arcais boasted the services of a good blacksmith. But the Swan was also favored for the fine food and good wine it served, and because its rooms were spotlessly clean and the service good. It was used to, and comfortable with, the patronage of the wealthy and titled. Today it awaited the arrival of a particular patron, but as the day drew to a close, the Duchess Mariette de Montmercy was overdue. Half the village gathered in the common room eager for a glimpse of the beautiful Duchess. In the kitchen, Mario, the innkeeper, hovered anxiously while his wife kneaded dough with extreme force. She glanced up, frowning ominously.
"Will you not do something useful, Mario?" The question hung unanswered as he paced, brow furrowed in oblivious concern.
"She never arrives so late. Do you think something has happened?" he asked.
With a hiss of breath, his wife twisted the dough. "That woman has men enough to fuss over her." Her powerful shoulders hunched in displeasure. "I don't see why she deserves such concern. It's not as if our livelihood hangs on her safe arrival."
"She's a good customer, Alice, and a widow traveling alone."
"Huh." A grunt that might almost have been laughter set her husband's nerves tighter, but he waited, resigned, as she continued. "You make her sound helpless. She's the wealthiest woman in the land, with a score of guards to protect her." Alice slammed the bread down and rubbed her hands clean. "And no better than she should be, from what I've heard."
Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3) Page 22
