"That was different; those villages were sheltering Ettivaran soldiers."
"Were the peasants in those villages any different? Could they defend themselves any better?"
"They were sheltering enemies; that made them traitors."
"And these, who shelter brigands, do they deserve any more pity?"
"I haven't seen any brigands, not a sign of them."
"And this summer, did you see the Ettivaran soldiers?"
"No," he admitted, suddenly unsure what point St Andre was making.
"You followed orders," St Andre insisted.
"Yes, but…" He tried to explain. "I have a duty, particularly here at Chamfort. If I lead your men, I must take responsibility for their actions."
"So, it is only because we are here in Chamfort. Elsewhere you will follow my orders. Your duty as some might see it."
Edouard hesitated; somehow, St Andre had twisted his words. "I do not question you lightly."
St Andre was very still, his face expressionless. "Well you have questioned, and I have answered. Raymond and the men will be waiting."
The Marechal turned away, making it clear he was dismissed. Edouard hesitated. He watched as St Andre returned to his desk and picked up the discarded papers; he did not look up, behaving as if he were alone. There was something chilling about his silence.
Edouard retreated. He closed the door softly, and stood for a moment in the corridor, unable to escape the feeling that something significant had changed.
Chapter 31
When the food came, Remy was not hungry. He sipped the ale and crumbled the bread to pieces. The inn was busy. He hunched his shoulders over his plate, trying not to take up too much room on the bench, trying not to attract anyone's notice. With every passing moment, his terror grew. The Duchess, his only protector, was at the chateau. He dare not return there or send a message. He had been a fool to run, and now he was alone again.
It was full winter. The long journey to his home was difficult and dangerous in this weather. He could not hide in the woods, and it would be madness to set out on foot. He would have to remain in Chamfort town until he found a group to travel with. Where could he go? Simon was gone. He had no friends in the town, and when they came looking for him they would search all the inns. They might be searching already.
Remy scrambled from the bench, knocking his plate aside and bumping the man next to him so his drink slopped across the table. The man turned to curse him; Remy mumbled an apology and dived through the crowd towards the door. Outside, he hurried away, slipping and sliding on the ice and slush until the tavern was out of sight and he was sure no one had followed. He paused in the shelter of a doorway. Flurries of snow drifted through the streets. The wind howled off the corners. Tugging his cloak tight, head down, Remy walked the streets in a fog of aimless terror.
He was near the heart of the old town now, and the castle tower loomed above the buildings. Without thought, he turned left and then a few strides later right. The narrow, sheltered alley brought him to a small square. On three sides, houses stood shuttered against the storm, and on the fourth, a span of steps led to an arched doorway and a small chapel. Remy came to a halt. He realized that, by some miracle, his wandering had brought him to the one place he might find refuge. The Knights' Chapel.
It was an old building, used for centuries by the knights of Chamfort, and more recently the place of worship for squires serving at the Chateau Chamfort. Remy knew the chapel well and, more importantly, he knew and trusted the priest, Father Peter. He hurried across the square, his feet crunching the icy snow. At the top of the steps, the heavy wooden door, studded with iron, was never locked. It swung open with a gentle whine. With a shiver of relief, Remy slipped inside.
The porch was dark and warm after the bitter wind. Another door led into the chapel. Pushing it open gently, he heard the murmur of Father Peter's voice and saw there was a service in progress. Remy moved silently past the ranks of tombs that lined the walls. He found a place in a pew at the back of the chapel and knelt down. High above, the banners of every knight entombed in the chapel hung motionless, faded by time. The knights' shields decorated the walls. He knew many of their stories; the chapel sheltered the remains of Chamfort's most famous knights, and held sacred the traditions of chivalry they had embraced. It was a timeless place, and in some way that made Remy feel safe.
When the service ended, he sat waiting until Father Peter had seen to the last of his parishioners. Then, as the priest returned to the chapel, he rose and went to meet him. Father Peter smiled in greeting.
"Remy, it's good to see you again. I've missed you these last weeks." The priest moved closer, his calm gray eyes fixed on Remy's face. "Remy?"
Undone by the priest's friendly welcome, and his concern, Remy could not speak. He coughed, digging his nails against the flesh of his hands. He forced his voice steady as he spoke the words he had rehearsed. "Father Peter, I have come to ask for your help."
"Of course, Remy, what can I do?"
"I've left Chamfort. I'm going home." Remy blinked and, shamed by the feel of tears, dropped his gaze to the floor. "Until I can find someone to travel with, I need somewhere to stay."
"May I ask why?"
"I can't say." Remy studied the priest's face anxiously, wondering whether he could trust him. He found only kindness and concern. "I need a place to stay, and I would ask that you tell no one where I am."
"Are you in trouble, Remy? If you are, maybe I can help."
"No." It was a hoarse, ragged cry. Remy took a breath, struggling for composure. Somehow he must convince the priest without involving him. "I only need somewhere to stay, until I can join a group traveling south."
Father Peter took a step forward and then came to a halt. "Please, Remy, sit down." He waited until Remy obeyed and then moved to sit beside him. "Of course, I will help, but I can see something has scared you badly. Will you trust me?"
"Please, Father, it is not about trust. I don't want to involve you, it is too dangerous."
"Perhaps you should let me judge that." Father Peter smiled gently. "Whatever troubles you, Remy, a man of my calling cannot stand by and leave you to carry such worries alone. Let me share your burden, for whatever it is, I have the means to help."
"You don't understand." Remy gulped. "Men have died…"
As the echo of his words faded, the chapel lay silent around them. Remy started to his feet, but Father Peter caught his arm, holding him gently. Surrendering to that gentle pressure, Remy dropped back into his seat. He drew a shuddering breath and another. Under the priest's silent gaze, the words came haltingly at first. He said nothing of the crypt. Instead, he spoke of Simon's death, of the time in the woods, his illness, and his return with the Duchess. Then he stopped and sat in terrified silence until the priest spoke.
"He was a good man, your friend Simon?"
"He was." Remy looked up and met the priest's calm gaze.
"And will you tell me why he was killed?"
"Because of me." It was the truth. "He was trying to protect me, but I wasn't even there." He was breathless with remembered panic as he admitted, "I did nothing, just stood and watched."
Father Peter's level gaze made no judgment. "Will you tell me who did this and why?"
Hesitating, he met the priest's gaze. "I don't know who they were." He forced the words past his choking fear. "They killed him because of me, because of what I saw." It sounded bad. "I swear I have done nothing wrong. I can't tell you any more than that. Please, don't ask me to."
"Is there anyone you would speak to about this, Remy?"
"No," he said. "Please, if you would just let me stay until I can find a group to travel with."
His face troubled, Father Peter sat thinking. Absently, he rubbed a hand against his neck. Then he smiled. "These things can wait. We will be able to speak more later. Of course you can stay; there is room in my home, and no one will trouble you there." He stood up. "Come with me now and we will see yo
u settled."
Muttering thanks, Remy followed the priest through the silent chapel to the sacristy. Quickly stripping off his vestments, Father Peter pulled a dark cloak over his robe and led the way out through a small side door. Across a narrow courtyard lay the house. As they walked, the priest explained that he lived alone; his servants, a man and wife, came in each morning to see to his needs. Inside, Father Peter introduced Remy to Marthe and Ernest and then led him up to a room on the first floor.
"Make yourself comfortable here, Remy. I have to make some calls in the town. Marthe and Ernest will be here for a few hours, and I should be back before they leave." He turned to the door and halted. "If you like, I will make enquiries for a suitable group traveling south?"
"Thank you." As his fear eased, Remy felt weak with relief. He was safe. The priest's kindness left him close to tears. It seemed he might find a way out of this nightmare. He could not find the words to express his thanks. Father Peter smiled.
"When I come back, we will talk." He left, closing the door gently.
Remy stood listening as the priest descended the creaking stairs. Then he turned to study the room. It was small and wood-paneled, with a bed in one corner and narrow windows overlooking the chapel, the castle tower looming beyond. Remy moved to stand by the fire. Gradually, the shivering eased. Removing his cloak and laying it aside, he settled into the one chair.
A little later, Marthe brought him a bowl of broth with a hunk of bread, and left a jug of warmed spiced wine close to the fire. Remy ate hungrily, and then drank most of the wine. Finished, he settled back in the chair. He could hear Marthe and Ernest moving around below. The soft murmur of their voices reassured him. Outside it was still snowing, but he was warm now, and safe. After a while, he drifted to sleep.
He woke with a start and jumped up. Outside the window, it was growing dark. The fire had burned low. He must have slept for hours. Remy stood listening. At first, the house seemed silent and empty, and then he heard the sound of voices. He went downstairs and found Marthe and Ernest preparing to leave. The woman smiled at him.
"Do you feel better, Master Remy?"
"Yes, thank you. Where is Father Peter? I thought he would be back by now?"
"He's back and gone over to the chapel. He looked in, but you were sleeping and he thought it best not to wake you," she said. "Go over and find him, he won't mind."
Remy watched them leave the house and then followed; taking a different path, he crossed the narrow courtyard to the chapel. It was snowing again and even in the sheltered courtyard, the wind whipped the snow to blinding flurries. Remy hurried to the side door and pushed it open. Inside he stood for a moment, shaking the snow from his hair. Father Peter was not in the sacristy. Beyond, the chapel lay in near darkness, only a few stands of candles throwing patches of light into the gloom. Remy shivered.
He opened his mouth to call for the priest, and then thought better of it. Slowly he walked forward. High above, the dusty banners hung motionless, but around the walls, shadows gathered thick between the tombs. Close by a shutter rattled, and a whisper of sound rose to a wild moan. Remy spun round in panic, and then stood foolishly trembling. It was only the wind.
He reached the nave and looked around. There was no sign of Father Peter, and the small chapel seemed to be empty. Remy turned and started towards the chancel. Here the chapel was in darkness, and he approached the steps cautiously. He saw the priest then. Father Peter lay on his side, sprawled across the steps. Remy stood frozen, and then he stumbled forward and dropped to his knees at the priest's side. He reached a trembling hand to touch Father Peter's shoulder, and felt his body move, slack and unresisting. His fingers fumbling against the cloth, Remy searched for any sign of life. His hands came away sticky with blood.
Before he could think, light bloomed through the chapel, and he heard the tramp of heavy feet. Remy turned. A dozen men came forward from the shadows, wearing crimson and black. Some of them carried drawn swords; they were all armed. He watched them come, unmoving. One of them called out.
"We have him, my lord. Come and see what the murdering little bastard has done."
The words sounded strange, rehearsed. The men moved quickly, fanning out to block any chance of escape. Two came towards Remy with drawn steel. Helpless, unarmed, he remained kneeling at the priest's side until they reached him. Rough hands dragged him up. They pushed him down the steps; at the bottom, a hard shove sent him to his knees. As they came to stand behind him, Remy looked up. From beyond the ring of light, a man came forward and halted staring down at Remy. His hat threw half of his face into shadow, and the other half was featureless beneath a beard. He wore a heavy cloak, and his gloved hand rested on his sword hilt. Remy did not know him until he spoke.
"Murdering a priest, you'll pay for this, boy." He paused, as if waiting for a rebuttal, but Remy said nothing. He recognized the man's voice. He had heard it the night Simon died, giving orders to the men who had killed him. The man stood watching him, and then, with a cruel smile, he turned to the leader of his men. "Tie his hands and bring him."
Remy did not struggle. Numb, almost beyond fear, he felt only regret. Surely this had been his fate since a stolen afternoon had made him witness to murder. His bitter regret was for Simon and Father Peter. Though he made no resistance, the men handled him roughly, fulfilling the charade that he was responsible for the priest's death. Slapped half senseless, he was dragged from the chapel. Outside the bitter wind rattled shutters and swirled the snow into blinding flurries. It was dark now. On the icy steps, Remy slipped and half fell. A vicious, choking grip on his collar kept him upright as the cords burned his bound wrists.
In loose formation, the group started down the steps. Over the roar of the wind, Remy heard the leader's voice raised to call an order. A moment later, the night became a chaos of struggling shapes. The grip on his collar was gone and he was falling. Swept up by a hand on his arm, he was dragged clear of the crowd and pulled across the square to the shelter of an alley. Under cover, the grip on his arm disappeared, and before he could think, a sharp voice commanded.
"Keep still." A dagger flashed, and Remy felt the chords on his wrists fall away. Then his rescuer spoke again. "Come on." A hand gripped his arm, urging him to a run, supporting him when he slipped. "Find your balance, boy, we don't have time for you to blunder around like a drunken heifer." In the darkness, the voice was neither patient nor particularly friendly.
Remy ran, slipping and sliding. His rescuer at his side, inhumanly agile, chivvied him on. They turned down alleys and crossed silent courtyards, keeping clear of the main streets. Soon Remy's legs ached, and he was gasping for breath. They were running along a narrow alley, high walls to either side. He stumbled, falling hard against the wall. A hand caught his arm, dragging him on. At the end of the alley, the hand on his arm jerked him to a sudden halt. The grip tightened in warning. Remy heard the crunch of footsteps and saw the flickering light of torches. A group of men headed this way.
He looked to his rescuer. The man, anonymous in the dark, gestured. They turned and started back. The narrow lane offered no hiding place, on either side the walls rose above them, unbroken by gap or gate. At a touch, Remy came to a halt. His rescuer spoke from the shadow behind him.
"Over the wall, boy, it is our only chance." He bent, cupping his hands.
Accepting the boost, Remy scrambled astride the wall, his fingers chilled by the icy snow. A moment later with an athletic leap, his rescuer was beside him and, in one fluid movement, dropping to the snowy ground beyond. At his sign, Remy followed, his heavy landing expertly rescued. Warned to silence, he stood listening to the sound of men entering the lane. Poised for flight, his rescuer glanced at him then looked pointedly up. Following his gaze, Remy saw the place on the wall top where the disordered snow told of their passage.
Beyond the wall, the crunch of footsteps drew closer. There was a softly spoken command; the footsteps paused. Held by a bruising grip, Remy stood, breathless
. Another voice spoke and then the men beyond the wall moved away, the tramp of their feet loud in the dark. As the sound, faded Remy felt the man at his side move, and turned to follow. Creeping between white shrouded stacks, Remy realized they were in a yard. He tracked the shadow flitting ahead, passing quickly between storehouses and workshops to reach a narrow gateway. The bolts slid clear and the door opened. Outside, the wide street lay silent and empty, but Remy's skin crawled as they left the shelter of the gateway and crossed another lane.
They walked now, careful not to draw attention, and after a while came to a halt before a gate set in a long wall. A sequence of sharp taps brought the rattle of keys and the soft thud of bolts sliding clear. The gate opened. As his rescuer stepped through, Remy hesitated and glanced towards the empty street. The man turned back.
"Don't be a fool." A moment later, whiplash fast, he caught Remy's arm, jerking him roughly inside. The gate closed and the bolts slid home. Released, Remy drew a shuddering breath and glanced around. They stood in a small courtyard, on three sides buildings rose above them. Most of the windows were shuttered and dark, and the only one showing light lay directly ahead. Without a word, his rescuer started across the courtyard towards the only visible door. Remy followed. His breath came in short gasps. The sound of bolts slamming home echoed in his head.
They passed through a door. Inside, a low passage led to a stone staircase. After the mad run, his legs were weak, his strength near gone and he could not stop shivering. The twisting stairs seemed unending, and then he saw they had reached a dimly lit landing, ahead lay a closed door. Suddenly his mouth was dry with fear. Soon he would learn who had rescued him, and why. He stumbled on the last step.
His rescuer had reached the door and, as Remy landed on his knees, the man turned back with a mild curse. He stood waiting as the door swung open and light shone from the room beyond. For the first time, Remy saw him clearly: a young man, lean as a whip with the wide muscled shoulders of a swordsman. Beneath the glint of tawny hair, the handsome face, with its wide eyes, was fine-boned and impatient. Remy stared, caught by a confusing half memory. Before he could capture it, the young man snapped.
Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3) Page 28
