"I will not have that conversation, Arnaud," he said. He forced every scrap of emotion away. "Can you lie with your wife as a man?"
Pale already, even Arnaud's lips lost color. "Father!"
"Well," he said and, waited a dozen heartbeats. "I need to know. The court places wagers, damn you." He heard Beatrice gasp, but he was not minded to be kind.
"I'm sure it amuses them. But why must you…" Arnaud gave a helpless shrug. He placed a hand on the back of a chair, a seemingly casual gesture, but his breath came fast and shallow.
Ferdinand wanted to go to him but, along with the pain, a thread of anger remained. Tears slipped silently down Beatrice's face.
"Can you? I must know, Arnaud."
"I can," Arnaud said. The words were little more than a whisper. "But do not ask me to go to her, please."
"Why? It is your duty." Ferdinand thought his heart would break, but the word came cold and clear.
"She loves me already, and I cannot bear it."
"What is there to bear? Let her love you, Arnaud." Ferdinand took a step forward, caught between the needs of a father and a king.
"She can be a comfort to you," Beatrice said softly.
"And who will comfort her, when…" Arnaud turned away.
Despite the ache in his throat, Ferdinand spoke without sympathy. "Give her children. They will be her comfort and your legacy." It sounded impossibly cruel, but the words were said. He could not call them back.
Beatrice bent her head, the knuckles of one hand raised to her lips.
Ferdinand strode forward and caught his son's arm, gently turning Arnaud to face him. "Arnaud, the future is not set. Who is to say what will happen. Your duty would be no different."
"I will go to her as you ask," Arnaud said, shrugging free of his hold and stepping back. "But I will not be so callous as to take more of her heart than I have already." He bowed. "If it pleases you, Father, I will retire."
Ferdinand nodded and watched his son's careful progress until the door closed behind him. Beatrice was dry-eyed now and pale as milk. He met her gaze.
"What would you have me do?" He slammed a hand against the table, glass and silver chimed and trembled.
"Find a way to make it easier for him," she said.
"Gladly, but how?"
"He needs a friend."
"No." Ferdinand shook his head. "I will not call for that wretched boy."
"What difference will it make to you having Rupert's son at court?"
He could not answer her.
Chapter 30
Remy rose early. Drawn to the window by a strange quality to the light, he saw that it had snowed. It was deep, perfect and untouched, and brought an instant longing to be outside. If he went out now before anyone was up, he could take the Duchess's dogs for their morning run. He didn't usually go alone, but today no one would be about this early. He thought for a moment and then scrambled quickly into shirt, trousers and jacket. The chateau was silent and deserted but for busy servants. Nearly all traces of the night's revels were gone. He smiled at the maids as they scurried past, dusting, polishing furniture and lighting fires.
Outside, the world was white; hedges, trees and bushes glittered and took on magical shapes. The chateau was topped by a glistening coat of snow; icicles hung like jewels above the windows. Thrilled, he loped through the pale beauty of the gardens, and across untouched snow to the kennels. The dogs greeted him uproariously. He fed them, and as they ate he cleaned the kennels. As soon as the dogs were finished, he took them out into the meadows beyond the walls.
The dogs leaped and frisked in the snow. Remy joined in the play, tumbling with his favorite, Keela. As they reached the woods, the dogs disappeared into the trees startling pheasants and rabbits alike. Remy knew he should keep them under better control, but the day was too marvelous. He tramped through the drifts at the wood's edge, knocking snow from the heavily piled branches. He was glad to feel well and strong again. As the sun rose, the air seemed even sharper, and soon he was tired and ravenously hungry. Turning back towards the chateau, he shouted for the dogs; it was then he realized they were not alone in the meadow.
He turned and stood frozen, staring. A magnificent dapple-gray horse galloped across the hillside. He recognized the horse and rider immediately, as any Chamfort squire would. Bluesteel was Sieur Edouard's horse, and no one else rode him. He watched as they flew across the white meadow. The stallion's mane and tail caught the wind and snow sprayed from his hooves. Sieur Edouard was an exceptional horseman, but in the snow, such speed was dangerous; the steep hillside made it lunacy.
They were headed in his direction. Remy felt a jolt of fear. He shouted for the dogs, and turned to head back towards the chateau. It seemed a long way distant. The snow pulled at his tired legs, making every step an effort. The soft pounding of hooves drew ever closer. Too scared to look around, he shouted for the dogs and struggled across the slippery hillside. Moments later the gray stallion burst past him.
Remy came to a halt. He stared in open-mouthed amazement as Sieur Edouard hauled the stallion into an impossible turn. For a moment, horse and rider seemed doomed to slide, crashing to the ground; then, with a grunt of effort, the horse's great muscles bunched and its hooves found purchase. Snow flew up as horse and rider slid to a spectacular halt in front of Remy. Excited, the stallion plunged and reared. Sieur Edouard sat, unmoved, until the horse stilled. Remy shivered beneath his cool stare.
They regarded each other silently. The meadow was quiet; only the jingle of the stallion's harness made any sound. The horse pawed, one huge hoof carving through the snow to the ground beneath. Sieur Edouard touched his spurs to its side and the stallion stood. Remy gaped up at him for a moment and then stammered.
"Good day to you, Sieur Edouard." With a short bow, he turned away. His voice breaking with nerves, he called again for the dogs and started to walk toward the chateau. The stallion barred his way; turning to his left, Remy hurried forward, again the horse moved to block his way. He looked up, locked gazes with Sieur Edouard, and stood frozen. The young knight soothed his horse with a touch. A flush of color marked his face and his eyes glittered, blue and intense. For a moment, he stared at Remy, and then he spoke.
"There is something I need to ask you, Remy." He hesitated, glancing away towards the chateau; then he spoke in a rush. "You were there in the crypt that day." He ignored Remy's wordless denial. "Tell me what you saw."
"I don't know what you mean, Sieur."
"I know you were there, just tell me what you saw."
"I wasn't there. I didn't see anything." Remy felt his heart leap, pounding, into his throat.
Grim-faced, Sieur Edouard stared down at him. He took a breath. "There is no need to lie. I only need to know what you saw; you will come to no harm for it."
"I wasn't there, Sieur, I swear it. I saw nothing." Remy knew that his answer displeased Sieur Edouard. He saw a flash of confused impatience in his frown, but what else could he say? Simon was dead because of what he had seen.
He took a cautious step back. He took another, but his foot slipped and he fell to his knees. The stallion snorted. "Please don't hurt me."
Sieur Edouard curbed the stallion, reining the horse away from where Remy cowered in the snow. He spoke, but Remy did not hear the words. Frightened, he looked around for help. There was no one to save him, and nowhere to run. He did not dare move. He waited on his knees, shivering in the snow. The dogs arrived, bounding up to him, eager to continue the game. Reaching him, Keela froze, hackles raised, sensing his fear. Turning towards the stallion, she growled. The other dogs lined beside her.
Keela snapped the air before the horse's nose and, in response, the stallion tossed his head, laying his ears flat back. Keela growled again. Desperate, Remy grabbed for her, as a great hoof flashed through the air close by their heads.
Close to tears, Remy dragged at the dog. But, still growling, she bared her teeth and leapt forward. The stallion reared, snorting in rage. C
owering in the snow, Remy saw Sieur Edouard fighting to control the horse. As his forelegs hit the ground, the stallion reared again, rising until he was precariously vertical. Pressed close to the arched neck, Sieur Edouard eased the curb. But the horse did not respond, and as he reared impossibly higher, the stallion's hooves slipped on the snowy slope. The horse went over backwards, hitting the ground hard.
As the stallion fell, Remy scrambled to his feet. He took a stumbling step and tried to run, calling desperately to the dogs. Behind him, he heard Sieur Edouard cursing, and a jingle of harness as the stallion thrashed. Somehow, Remy found the strength to run. The dogs scampered easily at his heels, thinking it was some new game. He kept going until his throat and lungs burned and, gasping for breath, he had to stop. He turned to look back. Across the meadow, horse and rider were on their feet, the stallion prancing and snorting as Sieur Edouard mended broken reins. Remy saw him glance across the meadows towards them. The look on his face was terrible.
Remy turned and fled back to the chateau. Without thought, he returned the dogs to their kennels and gave them water. When he was done, he did not know where to go. It was still early, but there was no way he could return to his room in the chateau. He was wearing his warmest clothes. What little money he had was in his purse.
He headed for the town of Chamfort. The cliff road was icy, and it was bitterly cold. At the bridge, the guards huddled in the shelter of their gatehouse and waved him through without question. Remy scurried across. Below the bridge, the river was crusted with ice; in the town the snow was already dirty and rutted by wheels into treacherous ridges. People hurried by, heavily cloaked against the wind, keen to be back inside.
He made his way through the old town, uncertain where he was going until he came to a tavern. He had money. He needed to get out of the bitter wind, to sit for a while, get warm and think. The common room was small and smoky, and men crowded the close-packed benches drinking, eating and talking. At one end, a group of men gathered around the huge fireplace. Remy squeezed onto the end of one of the benches, a long way from the fire. When one of the servers shoved their way through the mass of people, he managed to order some bread and cheese and a mug of ale.
He sat silently among the steamy uproar. His thoughts churning over the morning's happenings, remembering everything he had tried so hard to forget. Mayor Arno was dead. Simon was dead. And he was the only witness to something terrible. How could he have been so foolish as to think it would all go away, just because the Duchess said he was safe? He had seen the look on Edouard de Chamfort's face. For some reason, the knight had not struck him down that moment in the meadow; maybe he was worried he would be seen. But Remy remembered what had happened to Simon. He had no doubt they would come for him.
####
The bridle leather had broken in three places and, with frozen fingers, it was beyond mending. Edouard had to lead Bluesteel back to the stables. The snow started to fall again, and soon it was a blizzard of huge flakes. He cursed and hunched his shoulders to keep it from his neck. The stable yard was deserted until Rico came hurrying out to help him, asking what had happened. In no mood to talk, Edouard ignored him and led Bluesteel into the stables.
Inside, it smelled of sweet hay and straw, and it was pleasantly warm after the bitter cold. He started to rub the stallion down, at the same time checking the horse for injury. Rico joined him, using a hay wisp to dry the stallion's coat.
They worked in silence. Rico kept his head down, and Edouard's thoughts were taken with the other boy and his stupid behavior. What would make the boy so terrified of him? What did he think he had seen? These were unsettling thoughts.
"Are you all right, Sieur?" Rico asked.
"I'm fine." He turned back to rub Bluesteel's ears, but the stallion tossed his head, warm and dry now, munching happily on his hay, but still a little bad-tempered. He watched as Rico threw a blanket over the horse's back. The boy turned to frown at him.
"You should get inside," Rico insisted. "You're shivering."
There was nothing more for him to do here, and he needed to see St Andre, warn him about what had happened. It was not an interview he was looking forward to. Edouard nodded, but did not move. He had spent a short while with the Marechal last night, giving a brief report on the week. How could he explain the mess he had made of things with the boy?
"Did you want me to get you a dry jacket, Sieur?"
"No, I'm going in now." Outside, the snow was falling fast. Beyond the gardens, the chateau was a white blur. By the time he reached shelter, he was coated in snow and freezing cold. He turned towards his rooms to change, glad for a reason not to go straight to St Andre. Glad to put off for a while longer what must be faced. He must voice his doubts, even if it cost him his dreams. Last night he had had nightmares. When he woke, Mariette's words had plagued him. He could not deny she had a point, and to satisfy himself, he must find a way to ensure the villages they raided were guilty of some crime.
His valet brought fresh clothes, and a message. He recognized St Andre's writing, and frowned as he ripped the seal. The Marechal wanted to see him, urgently. Edouard sighed. His valet glanced up.
"Are you all right, Sieur?"
"I'm fine, Berto."
"Perhaps a glass of brandy?"
It was a tempting idea, but one glass would not be enough. Not when he was going to question a man who was never questioned; not when he was going to lay his whole future on the line to do so. He shook his head. Berto bowed and retreated.
St Andre was in his rooms, seated at his desk reading dispatches. Glad to find him alone, Edouard moved to stand near the window, waiting until St Andre finished. At last the Marechal looked up, studying him for a moment.
"Edouard, are you well?"
Edouard nodded. "The boy from the crypt, he is here at Chamfort."
"Since when?" St Andre asked.
He hesitated, but the truth could not be hidden. "A week or so. He came with the Duchess Mariette; he is under her protection."
The silence lasted a few moments. "Why didn't you tell me?" St Andre's voice was soft. The calm before the storm.
"I wanted to speak to him quietly."
"And have you?"
"Yes."
"So, what happened?"
"He thinks I killed the mayor."
St Andre had turned back to his papers; he did not look up.
"Well? What can we do?" Edouard demanded, his temper already stretched thin.
"I warned you to leave this to me." A chilly silence followed. "What did you expect, Edouard? The boy ran not just from the crypt but from Chamfort. He must've had a reason. Anyway, it hardly matters now. I have taken care of everything. The Mayor's body was found in the town. There is nothing to connect you or your family to the murder."
"But I didn't do it, and the boy is the only one who knows the truth. Or he should." He looked away. "He was terrified of me."
"What did he see?"
"I don't know. He ran before I could get him to answer my questions."
"I told you to let me deal with him."
The unhelpful repetition annoyed him. "I should've gone straight to my father."
St Andre stopped what he was doing and looked up. "I am sorry if you feel that what we did was wrong, but it was done to protect your family, and it cannot be changed now. What matters is that you think of your family and do nothing foolish."
"But the boy, he thinks…" He could not finish.
"Let me deal with the boy."
"What do you mean?"
"I will speak to him. Perhaps he will feel easier talking to me. In the meantime, we have other urgent matters to attend to. I need you to ride out again as soon as possible."
"In this weather?"
"It will break soon, and this is urgent. We've had word, the storm has brought the brigands to seek shelter in a village close by. Raymond and the knights are waiting for you."
Outside the window, snow was falling heavy as feathers. Plagued by a g
rowing unease, though he knew it was foolish to cross the Marechal, Edouard could not back down. "I want to know what you plan to do about the boy? He's under Mariette de Montmercy's protection. I don't want him hurt, whatever he thinks he saw." He saw St Andre's face, but he did not stop. "And I wanted to speak to you about the villagers."
"I will speak to the boy. Don't worry, I will do nothing to upset the Duchess. Though that should hardly be our first concern." St Andre smiled, but it passed quickly as he said. "What is it you want to know about the villagers?"
"I'm worried." He had tried a dozen different combinations of words, but it was impossible to make this sound like anything but a challenge or criticism. "There has been nothing to show these villages sheltered or took bounty from brigands. They were poor places, the people just scraping a living from the land. It doesn't feel right." In the frenzy of hunting and fighting, he had not questioned what they were doing. But it felt wrong, burning and killing, driving off seemingly defenseless villagers when they found no resistance, no sign of brigands.
"Edouard, I don't have time for this."
"Then find time. You must care whether we are burning and killing innocents." The words surprised him near as much as the Marechal.
St Andre set aside the papers he was holding. He leaned back in his chair, leaving a moment's silence before he spoke. "I carry out my orders. You would be wise to do the same."
"What does that mean?" He held his ground and matched the Marechal's stare.
"It's dangerous to question the King's orders, and you have just gone somewhat further. You should take care, Edouard."
"Ferdinand's orders are to destroy the brigands. He would not countenance the murder of innocents to achieve that end."
St Andre laughed. "You have no idea what Ferdinand would countenance." He stood up, flexing his shoulders. "And I think you should take care to ensure that neither you, nor your family, ever find out." He came close, laying a hand on Edouard's shoulder, towering over him. "You have done this before, last summer in Etrives, you were not so squeamish then."
Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3) Page 27
