It was nearly dusk when they reached Chamfort. At the stables, Edouard turned away from Raymond without a word. He dismounted carefully, standing for a moment as his head spun. Then he loosed the girth and turned to lead his horse towards its stall. As he crossed the stable yard, he saw Charles emerge from the stables. He felt a surge of relief at the sight of his brother. Then he saw the look on his face.
Before he could say anything, Charles strode over to confront him. "Where the hell have you been? You were supposed to oversee the tournament arrangements."
"I'm sorry, but …"
"You're always sorry." Charles's voice was loud, and everyone in the yard could hear. "It's no help to me that you're sorry when I've had to spend the day doing what you should be doing."
"I had to ride with St Andre's men, it was arranged."
"Then you could at least have told me."
He did not want to argue with Charles. "I'm sorry, I didn't think– "
"Well, there's a novelty. Grunter has more sense of responsibility." Charles named the fattest and laziest of their father's hounds. "In fact, Grunter is generally of more use than you. How Father puts up with you, I don't know. You cause this family nothing but grief."
Edouard twisted the stallion's reins in his hands. "Charles…"
"I don't want to listen to you mumble excuses like a halfwit."
"Shut up, Charles." Edouard fought to hold his temper. "I apologized. What more do you want from me?"
Charles laughed, nastily. "Let me say it slowly so you can understand. Yet another apology is no good. The harm is done. I want you to stop behaving like a spoiled brat and take your responsibility to this family seriously."
"Listen, you insufferable asshole." Edouard felt the last threads of control desert him. "Where do you think I have been? What do you think I have been doing?" He indicated his filthy, blood splattered clothes. "Is there some reason why you think I have been enjoying myself?"
"What did you call me?"
"You heard." The outburst left him weak, and he leaned a hand against the stallion's shoulder to stop himself from falling over.
"You'll regret that," Charles said softly, and spun on his heel to march away.
Edouard managed to get the stallion to its stall. He left the grooms to care for the horse. The walk to Bluesteel's stall was an effort, but the whicker of greeting from his stallion rewarded him. He stayed for a few moments, then set out slowly for the chateau. The shock of his argument with Charles had shredded the last of his strength. With weakness came fear. His brother already despised him. How could he ever face his father?
The stable bell chimed. Edouard cursed; he dare not be late for dinner with Charles in this mood. In the chateau, he chose the quietest stairs and corridors to avoid his brother. He reached his rooms without incident.
Berto arranged hot water and a fresh bandage with his usual efficiency. When he asked about the wound, Edouard mumbled about a knife thrust during the fighting. Berto did not question this, though his gaze went briefly to the bloody, discarded shirt.
Downstairs, Edouard found the dining hall busy as servants prepared to serve a seven course dinner to his father's guests. He saw his father, but could not get close enough to speak to him. Mariette arrived and walked past him without a glance. He wondered what he had done. He watched as his father came forward to lead her to a place at his side.
Edouard found his place further down the table and took a seat, his gaze still on Mariette. As the servants brought the first course, Charles, sitting opposite him, struck up a conversation. Prompted perhaps by the Marechal's absence, he chose as his subject the successes of St Andre's summer campaign. Edouard glanced up, and Charles fixed him with a smile.
"So, Edouard, what can you tell us about the logistics of St Andre's success?"
"What do you want to know?" he asked warily.
"How many men did it take to secure Antrion after the walls were breached? I heard there was a problem with the supply lines, did that delay progress very much. How will that problem affect the campaign through the Tiessa valley next spring?"
Edouard knew little enough about the support logistics for St Andre's campaign. He was sure that he could not match the endless detail Charles could produce. And Charles knew he had not taken much interest in anything beyond the fighting. He understood at once, this was to be his brother's revenge for earlier. If he attempted an answer, Charles would make him look like a fool; if he did not the result would be no different.
He made an attempt to answer, and Charles politely corrected him. It was no surprise that his brother was much better informed on the minutiae of St Andre's campaign. Charles collected information, and now he provided facts, figures and hypothesis with an assurance that convinced his listeners, even though he had never been near a battlefield. Edouard listened with growing resentment.
Unprepared to be challenged on a topic where he had expected superiority, he was bludgeoned unmercifully by his brother's knowledge. Usually his father would intervene in such contests, but he was chatting with Mariette and seemed disinterested. Though Edouard suspected he was not completely unaware of what Charles was doing.
He listened as Charles continued, giving lists of statistics and drawing well-reasoned conclusions for the possibilities of campaigns across such difficult terrain. There was a moment's silence as he finished. Edouard played with his knife for a moment and then raised his voice to reply.
"Nicely done, Charles." He paused, trying to still the thudding of his heart. His head ached. A mixture of anger and resentment burned in his gut. "Such expertise will serve you well when it is your privilege to send men to fight and die for you."
The silence that greeted his words spread quickly along the table. Edouard knew a moment's triumph before the familiar sickening lurch. Not only had he all but called Charles a coward; even worse, he had suggested that Charles laid claim to the throne as if Arnaud was already dead. It was close to treason, unforgiveable in private. They were not in private. Half of Ferdinand's court was listening.
Charles had flushed and then paled, leaving his face a strange mottled color. It might have been funny, but it was not. Unthinking, Edouard looked to the head of the table. He was pinned for a moment by an icy blue stare; then his father turned away and resumed his conversation with Mariette. Gradually the soft hum of chatter recommenced. Further down the table, Michel would not meet his gaze.
Edouard could not eat. The sound of voices blurred to a strange roar. Across the table, Charles's glare promised trouble. Edouard endured until the servants brought the next course, and then he slipped out with them. For a moment, he hesitated, but there was no way he could face his father tonight. He needed time to think. Before anyone was sent to stop him, he left the chateau and headed for the taverns of Chamfort town.
Chapter 35
By the next morning, the snow was gone, replaced by a dull gray dampness. Mariette found it suited her mood as she prepared for her final day at Chamfort. Leaving Stefan and Sophie to undertake discreet enquiries, she joined the Prince's guests as they emerged from the chateau. A chattering, brilliant host, swathed in velvet and fur, they swept across the silent winter gardens, attended by servants bearing rugs and cushions. Mariette listened to the laughter and chatter, and the whispers.
She wondered if Edouard realized just what he had done. Through the week's entertainment, the wealth and accomplishment of Chamfort had been subtly demonstrated, but by no word or action had any greater claim been suggested. In this carefully managed setting, Charles had shown his ability, not least in the way he had handled the powerful men who had gathered to assess him. The game had been played faultlessly until Edouard had thrown a dozen careless words at his brother.
She could not believe it had been Edouard's intention to cause such harm, or that the words themselves had been premeditated. She judged that Rupert, by his reaction, did not think so either. Charles was probably too furious to care, whatever the intention, the harm was do
ne. And today Chamfort would display its strength; it was unfortunate. If it had been done with purpose, then Edouard played a game she could never have imagined. She dismissed the thought. Rash words and coincidence did not make him guilty. But the doubt was hard and cold in her heart. Had she misjudged him? Had he played her, played them all? She could not believe it, but her resolve to leave Chamfort grew. In Fourges, she would find proof; she would search out witnesses.
Ahead lay the lists, the pennants hanging still in the damp air. The arena had been prepared, the long barrier set down the middle freshly painted in blue and silver. At either end of the lists, a forest of lances were stacked ready. Stands had been erected: on one side comfort and luxury for the Prince's guests, cushions and braziers set beneath awnings. On the far side, the plain tiered stands for the towns people and the country folk, already crammed full and buzzing in anticipation.
Mariette found a place had been kept for her alongside Eloise. She settled, smiling, beside Rupert's beautiful daughter. The girl looked tired. It was not surprising, after playing hostess to such demanding guests. As servants spread rugs over them, Mariette glanced round at the chattering crowd. She leaned close and said softly.
"It's nearly over, you will be glad to see them gone?"
Eloise hesitated for a moment, her gaze cast down. Then, without smiling, she answered, "I must admit I will."
Mariette smiled. "But of course, it is a lot of work for you to see everything meets the standards of Chamfort. And you have done marvelously."
"Thank you, I don't think I would have managed without your help."
About to lead the conversation on, Mariette fell silent as Rupert arrived. The Prince, immaculate in pale satin beneath layered furs, stopped to greet her.
"Mariette, I'm so glad you stayed. We will give you a day to remember."
She smiled, and he turned away to greet his other guests before taking a seat close by. Before she could speak, a rattle of drums and trumpets rang across the damp morning. Beyond the lists, the competitors had gathered. She watched as they formed up, a line of mounted knights in glittering armor, their squires on foot carrying the standards. The first riders of the column entered the lists, and a roar of approval rose from the stands.
Dressed in the blue and silver of Chamfort, Henri and Louis rode at the head of the column, carrying the standards of Chamfort and Vallentin. The twins were grinning as they held the standards, and allowed their ponies to prance and buck. At the sight of them, another cheer went up from the crowds. Behind them came Edouard, his engraved armor sheened blue. He rode one-handed and raised the other to salute the crowd. At his side, his squire carried the pennant of Chamfort and his helm, blue plumes fluttering.
The cheers grew louder. As the crowd chanted his brother's name, Charles arrived to sit by Eloise. He was scowling.
"Ah, how perfect, my brother, returned from the arms of his paramour in time to enjoy the glory."
"Charles, please," Rupert said, with a quick sideways glance.
Mariette kept her gaze on the knights. She did not think Charles had meant to insult her personally. Seeing how anxious Eloise looked, she spoke quickly to break the uncomfortable silence. "The twins look happy."
"They begged to be allowed to lead the parade." Eloise turned at once to answer, smiling a little. "They are growing up so fast. Soon they will want to compete, and there will be no peace for anyone."
"It must be hard, having only brothers?"
"Oh, yes." Eloise raised her eyebrows, and they laughed together.
The parade completed a circuit of the lists and then lined before the stands to salute the Prince. Edouard drew his sword and led the knights in three cheers. Then the lists were cleared, and trumpets announced the first competitors in the joust. Thrilled that the waiting was over, the crowd cheered as the first pair of knights rode into the lists. Squires carried their helms as the knights saluted the crowd, and then ran to fetch lances and help their knights make the final preparations. The crowd quietened as the knights rode to take their place at the ends of the lists.
There was near silence as they faced each other. The signal was given, and the knights spurred their horses. The day's excitement began. As the first contest ended, the next pair of knights rode forward. She heard the crowd cheer even before she recognized Edouard and Bluesteel.
She watched as he saluted them with a wave. He curbed the stallion dramatically. Bluesteel reared, hooves pawing the air. Edouard cantered the length of the arena and let the stallion rear again. The crowd roared in approval. Taking a lance from his squire, Edouard settled the prancing stallion and took his place at the end of the lists. As the adjudicator signaled, he touched his spurs to the stallion's side. With a plunging rear, the stallion leapt forward. Edouard spurred on, sending the stallion thundering down the arena. Mariette caught her breath at the reckless speed. She saw Edouard raise his lance and take aim. It was poorly done. The stallion was over excited. Edouard scored a hit but only to the body, in return taking a hard blow to the head. His opponent had made the higher scoring hit, but as the adjudicators called the score, the crowd did not seem to care, still shouting for Edouard. Taking another lance, he made another dramatic but unsuccessful run. The crowd moaned in disappointment as he was eliminated.
As Edouard saluted the crowd, acknowledging their cheers and left the arena, Charles laughed.
"Well, however Edouard spent the night it has not improved his skill with a tourney lance."
"At least he has given the crowd a show," Rupert said, with a glance to his eldest son. "He has not had much chance to practice this week."
"More likely he is hung-over after last night's excesses."
"I think it would be better if we all tried to forget about last night."
Charles spluttered, but a look from his father silenced him. Mariette guessed it would be a long time before he forgot or forgave his brother. When she looked back, the next pair of knights had entered the arena. Rupert was smiling.
"Ah, Michel will give us a good show."
The crowds recognized Sieur Michel and cheered him. He had taken the victory here many times. Mariette watched as he guided his black stallion into position quietly and made two faultless runs. Other Chamfort knights followed, skillful and polished. The morning passed quickly and, to roars of approval, Michel took the victory again. He proclaimed it for Chamfort and the Prince. The crowd chanted his name as the Chamfort knights surrounded him.
Afterwards, Rupert led his guests back to the chateau for refreshment before the tournament resumed with the melee in the afternoon. Mariette was touched by the attention he showed her. He remained close at her side and seemed determined to ensure she enjoyed the day. Settled in the warmth, he chatted easily. The topics he chose were light and frivolous and, matching him, she thought he was relieved to escape the troubles that surrounded him. Before they had finished, Charles marched up and stood waiting. With a smile of apology, Rupert waved him forward.
"What is it?"
"Edouard does not intend to ride in the melee. Did you know?"
"No, does it matter?"
"The crowds expect to see him."
Rupert glanced at her. "Forgive me." He stood up and faced Charles. "This morning you were complaining that he was claiming too much attention."
"The townspeople expect to see him. Why should he cry off just because he has a sore head? He has no sense of duty."
Rupert shrugged. "Very well, I will ask him to ride this afternoon. Will that satisfy you?"
"In the unlikely hope it helps him to develop a sense of responsibility, yes."
Rupert watched him go and then returned to his seat at her side. "I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault."
"No? I sometimes wonder who else I can hold responsible."
She reached to touch his arm, hating herself slightly. "Would you prefer your sons to be dull, without ambition? I think not."
After a moment, he laughed. "Right now, I better not ans
wer you. Let me get through the next few days first. Then, if they haven't killed each other, and I haven't killed them, ask me again."
"You don't really doubt either of them do you?" She spoke lightly, but he sobered at once.
"Of course not. How could I when I must only look to my brother to know how lucky I am?" He was silent for a moment. "Every man desires strong sons, but such a blessing is not without cost. They are your pride, and a knife to your throat." He caught her gaze and smiled. "Ah, but you must ignore my ramblings. Your son will bring you only pride."
Walking back among the chattering host of guests, she pondered Rupert's words. They had not come easily to him, and she wondered. She did not press him, but let the conversation drift to less personal matters. They talked easily again until Charles de Chamfort arrived to take his place alongside them, grim-faced and distracted.
The knights entered for the melee, to the ominous beat of drums. She saw Edouard and Bluesteel among them. The knights drew to a halt in a line before the Prince and saluted him. Then Rupert gave the signal. The line split apart, and within moments, she heard the first clash of steel. Mariette shivered. It was impossible not to be caught by the excitement. Unfolding before them was something close to a true battle, and it was dangerous. There were rules, but only a few, and they were not easily enforced. There were always personal duels to be fought, old rivalries to be pursued. The only certain thing, once started, the melee was not easily halted.
She found herself watching Edouard. It was hard not to as, from the very first moment, he was brilliant. His disappointing show in the joust was forgotten. The gray stallion leapt and pirouetted as if by some magic. The horse answered his every command instantly, and Edouard's sword flashed with wicked accuracy. He dispatched two Chamfort knights and found himself facing Sieur Michel. Private battles were developing all around them. For a moment, they paused. Then, as his father's friend spurred towards him, Edouard grinned. At first, they traded blows in an elegant and rather polite display of swordsmanship. Then, suddenly, Edouard curbed Bluesteel. The stallion danced sideways, beyond the reach of Michel's sword, leaving him to overreach. Before his opponent could recover, Edouard touched his spurs to his horse, and the gray stallion pirouetted. Outmaneuvered, Michel had no chance to recover. Swinging low in the saddle, Edouard's blow caught him across the back and swept him from the saddle.
Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3) Page 32
