"Where've you been? The Marechal has sent a summons, he wants to see you." Raymond said. "He is not at Chamfort, but we will take you to him."
He had questions, but Raymond did not wait; he turned his horse and spurred away. Edouard found himself surrounded. He rode with them without protest, his thoughts turned inwards. He did not trouble to wonder why St Andre wanted to see him. His mind was filled with horror at the daughter's death, at what they were doing. He had questions of his own for the Marechal.
They traveled fast through the woods, the torchlight glistening off the snow as they followed small tracks and paths. Edouard was surprised to find he had lost all sense of direction. In the darkness, they came to a small, fortified manor house. Set deep among the trees, it had four towers, and was surrounded by a moat with an ancient drawbridge. He did not recognize the place.
They clattered over the drawbridge and into a square courtyard filled with a score of unfamiliar knights. Edouard dismounted staring at the knights, unsettled by the strangeness of them. They were not young men; all wore their hair brutally short, but were otherwise unkempt, with hard faces, and cold, unforgiving eyes. Their armor was battered and bloodstained as if it had seen hard use. Something predatory about them made him unwilling to turn his back.
With a last glance, he followed Raymond into the bare, stone-flagged hall. The manor was not lived in, there was no furniture, and it had a cold, deserted feel. As the Captain started towards the stairs, Edouard came to a halt, glancing to his blood splattered clothes.
"I must wash and change."
Raymond had reached the door to the stairs. "There is no time." He turned away and started up the stone steps.
Edouard followed. A sense of unease prickled his skin and temper. A nagging pressure throbbed behind his eyes. Raymond came to a halt by one of the doors. He knocked and then opened it, gesturing for Edouard to enter ahead of him.
Edouard stepped into a small room; dark paneled walls were hung with faded tapestries. A fire burned in the hearth. Beyond the narrow, leaded windows, the sky was dark. Two stands of candles gave the only light. St Andre stood by a table near one of the windows. He was dressed for travel and he was armed, a plain sword and dagger. As Edouard walked forward, he turned.
"Edouard."
"St Andre."
The curt greetings faded into silence. Edouard concentrated on St Andre, trying to judge his mood. He heard the door close, but sensed a presence behind him. A glance confirmed it. Baron Joachim stood a few paces away, Raymond alongside him. There were two more of the Marechal's men by the door. The look on their faces raised the hairs along his neck. He was in a trap. Without comment, Edouard turned back to face St Andre. After staring at him, at his bloodied clothes, the Marechal smiled.
"I see that, despite your concerns, you did what was required. I'm proud of you, Edouard. Duty is duty, however unpleasant."
Before he could answer, Raymond spoke from behind him.
"He disappeared, Marechal. He was not part of the fighting in the village." Raymond's voice was heavy with suspicion, and his step forward was a threat.
"Ah…" St Andre surveyed the blood. "But, Edouard, whatever your doubts, clearly you found a worthy enemy." Sarcasm twisted the Marechal's smile, and made his face unrecognizable for a moment.
Edouard said nothing. St Andre's words made no sense, but he sensed the trap was about to be sprung. Instinct screamed warning, and his fingers curled to fists. There was some change here, sliding beneath the surface, powerful and deadly. He sensed it, felt the current of words sweeping him towards danger. He was not ready for this type of battleground. He despised games and, despite his father's warnings, stubbornly refused to accept that his position set him at the heart of the biggest game of all. He had chosen a different type of battleground. A place where there were no such subtleties. He had stepped aside. St Andre understood that, or so he had claimed. It sounded hollow, foolish now. Unwilling to speak of the daughter of the mysteries, he kept silent, and that in itself seemed a defeat.
St Andre laughed.
"So, Edouard, the bloodlust has taken you."
The words were unexpected, but it was as if he had taken a blow. He fought the urge to retreat. "No." He bit back further words of protest. "I need to speak to you alone."
The Marechal's gaze was hooded, a look Edouard knew to be dangerous. "The time for secrets between us has passed," said St Andre softly.
"What do you mean?"
"You have felt the bloodlust today. Don't deny it, Edouard, it is what makes you one of us."
"This is madness." He took a step back and stopped as he sensed Joachim close behind. The Marechal laughed.
"You are a predator, you feel the bloodlust; it is why you fight as you do, without fear. It is strong in you, I can sense it." St Andre moved closer. "I could always sense it, which is why, of all your family, we chose you."
Edouard's vision faded and returned. The room seemed darker. St Andre was watching him.
"You look surprised, and yet you have had doubts. Can you truly not have guessed?"
"Guessed what?"
"That we serve a different master. That through these last months, you too have come to serve that master."
"This is madness. What master?" Edouard felt a sudden tightness in his throat and chest that made it hard to breathe.
St Andre did not answer the question. His smile was cruel. "Come, Edouard, this is not such a surprise. It will not help you to feign ignorance. Only today, you challenged that our work was Ferdinand's will. Still you are here, serving me willingly. Serving my master as you have always done."
"No. I will have no part in any kind of treachery."
"Don't be a fool, it is too late for such denials," said St Andre. "You have served, Edouard, and you will continue to serve. The commitment you made to me will be honored." His voice was gentle as he continued, "Do you really not see it? You have served our cause here at Chamfort. But it is not the first time you have served. Think, Edouard."
It was not hard to work out. St Andre had drawn attention to it when they spoke this morning. At the end of the summer campaigns, he had ridden with St Andre's men to clear out villages sheltering Ettivaran soldiers and rebels. It had been his first command; he had been flattered by St Andre's trust. Raymond had been there. Edouard remembered the killing and burning. Bile rose in his throat. It was a struggle to speak. "The villages that sheltered rebels and gave information to Ettivaran spies?"
"Perhaps, but we had other reasons to burn those villages."
Even anticipated, the words were like a knife thrust. He retreated, but a hand at his back shoved him forward. Breathing raggedly, he stared at St Andre and did not recognize him. It seemed impossible. He had trusted this man completely. St Andre, the first of the King's generals, victor of a dozen battles, honored and respected. The Marechal had taught and encouraged him, argued for him even against the King, daring Ferdinand's displeasure. St Andre had been beside him through every success, had given him his first command. "You are telling me we slaughtered innocent people." His voice sounded strange as blood pounded in his ears.
"It was necessary; in time you will understand that. For now, remember that you are part of this."
"No!" It was a shout of anguish. He was a knight, sworn to protect. His father's words and warnings echoed in his head. There was no worse betrayal. It was impossible. He would never betray that vow, or his father's teaching. This could not be happening. "No," he said grasping for the truth. "Your orders burned those villages."
"There is no proof of that. I was not even there."
"I would never have done such a thing; no one will believe it," he said.
"But you did do it, Edouard," the Marechal spoke softly. "And there are witnesses a plenty."
"On your orders," he repeated, clinging stubbornly to the only truth he could bear. "I will denounce you. I will find proof."
"No, Edouard, you will not." The Marechal smiled. "And do you think for a
moment the King would believe you over me?"
"My father will help me."
"Your father?"
The soft menace in St Andre's voice, and the thought of admitting what he had done to his father, brought a chill of fear and kept him silent.
"It would not be wise to involve your father." It was a clear threat. After a moment, the Marechal continued, "He is already suspected of treason." St Andre shook his head. "Do not think to involve him, Edouard. Unless you are willing to put your family at further risk? These are dangerous times; Ferdinand is suspicious and sees rivals everywhere. It would not take much to bring the King's wrath down on Chamfort."
Edouard heard the depth of the threat behind the words. "Then I will go to Ferdinand and tell him everything I have done and why. He can do what he wishes with me, but I will not serve you, and I will not let you destroy Chamfort."
St Andre laughed. "I say again, you are a fool if you think the King will take your word over mine. A few words and I can destroy your father and Chamfort." The Marechal smiled. "But you are not listening. I do not want to destroy Chamfort, quite the opposite. No harm will come to your family, unless you are foolish. Ferdinand has proved he is no friend of yours. What do you owe him?"
He heard St Andre, but he could not make sense of the words. Memories of the summer campaign filled his head. Images that matched the nightmares of what had happened over the last weeks in his father's own demesne of Chamfort. Bile burned his throat as he swallowed. Close to tears as the vivid memories swept over him, he saw the villages, already poor and ravaged by the war, burned to the ground, the livestock and possessions destroyed. The people harried mercilessly, killed or driven off. All of them innocent of any wrong doing.
In the summer, he had believed the villages sheltered Ettivaran soldiers and spies; now he remembered how, just like in the Chamfort woods, there had been little resistance. He remembered terrified old men and boys fighting clumsily, and dying. Women running, dragging children with them as they fled the burning and death. He could not guess how many had died. He could hardly believe it possible he had been so mistaken.
What sort of glamour had St Andre cast that it could subvert him so completely? But that was not the heart of it. His father had warned him often enough. Despite everything, what sort of fool was he to be blinded to all he had been taught by the heat of the battlefield and the promise of glory? Edouard looked up, realizing the silence had lasted a long time.
He was still armed. But against five of them, in the narrow confines of the room the odds were impossible. He hardly cared. Looking to St Andre, he whispered, "Why? Why have you done this?"
"You will understand everything in time, Edouard, and you will thank me."
He took a step forward, raising his left hand in a wordless gesture. His gaze remained locked to St Andre's, and he made no attempt to hide his fear. "Please, you must see I can't…" He took another half step, almost stumbling, letting his hand fall towards his dagger, disguising the move with the twist of his body. Another step and he was close enough. Dagger in hand he stabbed for St Andre's heart.
It might have worked with any other man, but as he struck, the Marechal moved. Steel met steel. As the blades clashed, the Marechal twisted. Edouard tried to recover, but he was off balance and his momentum carried him within St Andre's reach. The Marechal struck towards his exposed back. Edouard tensed for the bite of steel. He had no chance to recover or avoid the blade.
St Andre used only the flat of his hand. Knocked headlong towards the wall, Edouard saved himself with a raised arm. Tangled for a moment in the tapestry, he ripped free and reached for his sword. The moment of weakness cost him dear; behind him, four drawn swords waited. He turned at bay before them. No time to draw. With a flick of his fingers, he reversed the dagger for a throw that he knew would be his last chance. Joachim was faster. His sword glittered as it swept up. Edouard felt the chill of steel against his neck. He tensed to complete the throw. The Baron spoke sharply.
"Easy boy, you can die here, it makes no odds to me."
"Joachim, enough. Disarm him, damn you." St Andre's voice was sharp with command. Before Edouard could move, Raymond stepped forward and caught his wrist. With Joachim's blade at his throat, Edouard surrendered the dagger. They took his sword, too.
The Marechal stood beyond the ring of steel, unconcerned now, smiling a little. He sheathed his dagger. "Edouard, as always, your courage cannot be faulted, even if your reasoning leaves something to be desired. You cannot harm me, and if you do there is no chance of escape." The tone of St Andre's voice changed. He spoke with added menace. "Your death here would be a worthless gesture. It would change nothing, and it would place your family in jeopardy."
"How so?" He hated to allow the man credence, but he knew St Andre, and from him this show of confidence was terrifying.
"Edouard, you know better than anyone, I do not make empty threats." The Marechal was silent for a moment. "Your family is surrounded by enemies, and they face so many threats the detail hardly matters; but would you see your sister forced to an unwanted marriage, your younger brothers made hostage to Ferdinand's temper, your father arraigned as a traitor to face the headsman's axe? I know you have little love for your brother, but would you set Charles's life at risk?" He paused for a moment, studying Edouard's face. "If you care for your family, you will obey me."
"I will kill you and I will protect them." The threat sounded hollow in his ears, but this time St Andre did not laugh.
"Don't be foolish. The threats to your family I have spoken of may come from any quarter, or from our hand and by our making, or not even that. Chamfort has enemies everywhere. The situation grows more dangerous every day. As his son's health fails, Ferdinand is like a wounded bear. Have you any idea what a few words in his ear could do?" Another silence, then St Andre spoke with soft precision, just as he did in the heat of battle. "After Mayor Arno's murder, I protected you and your family. I could withdraw that protection."
It took a moment for the implication of the words to make sense to him. As the full import hit, his guts cramped. "The Mayor, that was your doing. The shadow creature…" Another spasm so powerful he nearly retched. "You brought that evil thing to Chamfort."
"Remember, Edouard, I can protect them. It is Ferdinand we will bring down. No harm will come to your family while you serve me. But if you cross me…"
Beneath Joachim's blade, Edouard's throat ached with anger and fear. He knew St Andre did not bluff. He longed to fight; some part of him knew it would be easier to die here than live with what he had done. But that was weak.
He thought of that creature loose in Chamfort. What he had done could never be changed, or excused. That truth made him shudder, but alive he had a chance to protect his family. To make some sort of restitution. "What do you want from me?"
"There will be time for that later." St Andre stepped forward, raising his own dagger. "You will make a pledge in blood to the shadow, a binding pledge that cannot be broken."
"No." To be forsworn, to break his oath as a knight, the idea sent shivers through him. He started forward. In response, Joachim's blade pressed his throat, forcing him hard against the wall. Despite the blade's pressure, Edouard's fingers curled to fists. "I am a knight; I will not be forsworn." He could not be trapped to a binding that could not be broken.
St Andre's laughter was terrible, full of mockery. "You know you are already forsworn, by the blood of the very innocents you swore to protect." He moved and the candles flickered. The shadows seemed to draw close around him, bringing memories of the crypt.
The thought of the shadow creature drove Edouard past thought or caution. They wanted him alive; it was his one chance. He pushed Joachim's sword aside, and leapt forward to attack St Andre barehanded, but Raymond and the others came for him. They caught his arms; Joachim slammed a fist to his gut. Then they dragged him to where St Andre was waiting. He fought them, thrashing and twisting, half breaking free. But half held, he could do nothing
as Joachim came up behind him and struck hard with the hilt of his sword. He went to his knees, stunned. A hand grabbed his hair, jerking his head back. Joachim's blade was pressed to his neck. St Andre came forward.
"Wait," St Andre ordered Joachim. "His arm, where the cut won't show."
Edouard struggled, but still dazed from the blow, he could not resist them. In moments, his arm was bare to the elbow beneath Joachim's blade. He hardly felt the cut, just the flow of warm blood over his wrist and hand. St Andre was speaking; strange words that meant nothing. The room grew cold and shadows gathered.
Chapter 33
Mariette joined Rupert and his remaining guests for an early dinner. After the glittering and exhausting revels of the previous night, the Prince and his household had prepared a relaxed evening, judging their guests' needs expertly. A light supper was served, followed by card games and music. Content, the eclectic and brilliant mix of guests settled in comfort and exercised their wit.
Mariette watched, studying the groups that formed, noting those who drifted, as she did, from group to group, listening and watching. She watched Charles take the role of host, moving easily among the gathering with Eloise at his side. She listened as Rupert dealt, smiling, with the seemingly harmless questions. She left as soon as she could.
When she returned to her room, Sophie was there. Seeing her anxious smile, Mariette asked, "Is there news?"
Sophie shook her head. She set aside the delicate shift she was embroidering, and went to fetch Mariette a blue velvet robe. "There has been no word from Mathieu."
"How difficult can it be to find one boy?" She settled the robe across her shoulders and walked to stand before the fire. No one had seen Remy since mid-morning. "He was told to never go out alone." There was nothing she could do, but she still felt a sting of guilt. The boy was at Chamfort because of her, and she had promised him protection.
Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3) Page 30
