Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3)

by Richard Crawford

  He shook his head and stepped closer.

  She reached out to him again. This time, when her fingers touched his arm, he did not flinch away. The soft fabric of his shirt was wet and clinging. Beneath it, he was shivering. Without thinking, she took his cold hands in hers. "You're frozen. Where have you been?" He did not answer. "You must go and change." Still, he did not move. "Edouard?" She gripped his shoulders and shook him. "You know you can't be here."

  "Please, I need–" He stopped abruptly. His voice was raw, and hardly more than a whisper.

  Something had happened, something more than the horse. She should find out. If she let him stay, it was likely she could make him tell her. The thought brought a sick fear. She wanted him, but not to learn his secrets. He was hurt and unhappy, perhaps she could ease his pain. But if he learned what she had done, it would cause him untold pain. And what of her duty to Hugo, to the Compact, to the villagers who had suffered and those who would suffer? Should she set his pain before theirs? How could she?

  Instead, she gave him the chance to choose. "But your father… We said we wouldn't."

  "He'll never know. I swear it. Mariette, don't send me away."

  She too had been alone. Her breath caught as she said, "Your shirt is soaked." Reaching up, she tugged the snarled laces and gathered the sodden fabric to pull it over his head. He stood for a moment, head bowed, as the firelight danced across his damp skin. His body was familiar to her, but even in the short while he had been denied her bed, it had changed. She stared at the swordsman's wide shoulders, the curve of biceps, the ridge of muscles and ribs tapering to a narrow waist. There were fresh bruises and a deep cut on one arm. And the mesh of old scars.

  Her fingers traced the old wounds. "You're too young to have such scars," she said. The words were true. She stepped closer, hating herself for what she must do.

  "Mariette." He reached for her. His hands cupped her face, his fingers twisting softly in her hair. His hands were ice cold, his hair wet against her face. As he kissed her, water dripped and trickled over her skin, winding an icy trail between her breasts. She shivered as his fingers followed. She arched towards his touch, letting the robe and shift slip from her shoulders. He drew her into his arms. She recoiled, gasping as his icy skin touched her.

  "Take off those wet clothes," she ordered. The words brought an echo of an old tease; once he had been her pupil. She looked up to catch his gaze.

  "Yes, my lady." For the first time, there was the ghost of a smile.

  The smile brought a heady rush of power, a bittersweet victory. With a glance over her shoulder, she retreated to the bed. She held the curtains aside to show a flash of bare shoulder, and smiled at the look on his face as he struggled to kick free of boots and peel off sodden fabric. "Hurry," she ordered in that same tone.

  For a moment, he stood shivering. Then he caught her mood and laughed. Clumsy in his haste, he stumbled against one of the trunks and cursed a stubbed toe. She held her breath, but he was too distracted to notice the other telltale signs of packing. "Hurry," she whispered.

  Waiting was torment. Jaime's words were in her head. She tried to concentrate on the task, gathering the threads of information and forming the questions in her head. But it was not what she wanted to think about. "Hurry!"

  "I'm trying, damn it. You could help!"

  Her laughter was forced, but he did not seem to notice. She slid from the bed. "Here, let me." She grabbed the sodden fabric and tugged, laughing again as he yelped at the rough handling.

  "Saints, Mariette, be a bit gentle."

  "Don't be a baby." She raked her nails across his damp chest and then held him at arm's length. There was no towel to hand; instead, she picked up a piece of embroidery. "Here."

  He looked at it. "What?"

  "Dry yourself," she ordered.

  He hesitated for a moment, but she did not relent, and he obeyed.

  "Watch out for pins," she said, laughing at him, and retreated to the bed.

  He flung the embroidery aside and followed. The curtains billowed as he caught her, shaking his head like a dog so she was showered with cold water.

  "Bastard! You'll pay for that."

  They wrestled tumbling in a nest of twisted sheets until she used her nails and teeth.

  "Ow! Cry mercy." He laughed and surrendered. She straddled him, pinning one of his arms as she bent to kiss his lips. His other hand traced the curve of her waist as their lips and tongues collided. She moved her mouth to his neck, nipping, but gently now. His breathing was ragged as she took her revenge. Slowly, her tongue traced a path to his nipples, and he groaned as she began to tease it lower.

  "Mariette, please. I can't…."

  "Wait." She shifted, rising above him as his hips moved to meet her. With a gasp, she leant back, shuddering with pleasure.

  She felt his urgency. "Slowly," she ordered, mistress to pupil.

  "My lady is too demanding…"

  She kissed him, softly, sealing his lips. Leaving no room for words, no chance for betrayal in this moment. She gave herself up to the ache of pleasure. And for the first time, there was no one else in her head. She cried his name.

  Afterwards, they lay together. Firelight flickered softly through the curtains. She heard him sigh and curled closer, resting her head on his shoulder. His breathing was deep and steady, and in moments, he would be asleep. Safe from another betrayal.

  "Edouard." She laid a hand across his chest, feeling the soft beat of his heart.

  "Hmm."

  There was one thing she must know. She would think of it as a chance to prove his innocence. "The boy, Remy, he's gone."

  It took a moment, and then he turned to look at her. He moved slowly, but she felt the half-caught breath, the sudden tension.

  "What do you mean, gone?" he said, raising himself on one elbow to look down at her. "When, where to?"

  "This morning, no one's seen him since."

  "Where did he go?"

  "I don't know. He said nothing about leaving." She sat up, concerned by his reaction, her own breathing less than steady. Moving away from him, she reached for the blankets.

  "Have you looked for him? When was he last seen?" The words were nothing less than urgent.

  But that did not mean… She watched him as she spoke, "He took the dogs to the meadow early. Then he went down to the town. I can't think what business he would have at that hour. It seems he did not return. I'm worried." She held her breath, waiting for him to tell her that he had seen the boy.

  The darkness hid his expression as the silence drew out. When he spoke the words were so soft, she barely heard him. He seemed to have forgotten her. "He ran away."

  "Why would you say that?" she asked.

  He shrugged, coming back to himself. "It's not the first time." Some of the tension was gone, and his voice was lighter. "No doubt it's for the best. He's probably far from Chamfort by now."

  "How can you say that when we don't know what has happened?" He had been afraid, but something had changed. She did not understand what.

  "If he hates Chamfort so much, then he's best gone." He sat up, moving close behind her. "Don't worry. He'll find his way home. He's not a child. Nor is he the first squire to run away."

  "But you said your father–"

  He gathered her hair and bent to kiss her neck. His other hand slid beneath the blankets to cup her breast. Mariette shivered.

  "Come here." His breath was soft against her neck. "I'll keep you warm."

  Chapter 38

  Edouard woke at dawn as the first hazy light filtered through the bed curtains. Mariette lay curled on her side, back to him, her hair a cloud of shadow against pale skin. The sight brought an immediate ache of desire. He leaned forward so he could see her face. She was breathing softly through parted lips. Fast asleep.

  Soon the chateau would be stirring. He must be gone before the servants came. But he did not want to leave. This morning he felt invincible. In one night, she had taken much of the d
arkness away. He could face what must be faced. With his family, he could face what must be faced.

  Once he had trusted Charles. He had known his older brother would always help him. Last night, before Gerald came, that feeling returned. Charles had been ready to listen. His brother had been willing to give him a chance. Charles would put their squabbles aside when it mattered.

  He must find the courage to face his father. Once everything was in the open, they would deal with this together. Somehow he would make Ferdinand understand the blame was his. It would be all right. If they stood as one, St Andre could not harm them. In the end, his threats were nothing more than clever words.

  Beyond the curtains, he could see the first rays of sunlight. If only she would wake. Softly, he kissed her shoulder. She did not stir. With a sigh, he eased from the bed. He settled the covers around her. Then, retrieving crumpled clothes, he dressed quickly. In the corridors, the first servants were already bringing firewood and water. He would never make his way through the chateau unseen. It was too early to go to his father. Instead, he slipped down the back stairs and headed for the stables.

  Thoughts of Mariette filled his head. She cared for him; he was more than an amusement to her. After last night, he was finally certain of it. Grinning, he walked across the damp grass towards the stables. Without thought, he turned towards Bluesteel's stall. Abruptly the warmth was gone. A shadow of doubt returned. He stopped before he reached the empty stall.

  "Edouard."

  He turned reluctantly. "Sieur Antonio."

  "I have a problem," Antonio said briskly. "A young stallion on the way to spoiling. He's not a bad horse, just needs some time and a kind hand. Take him out now." The horse master ordered. "While the arena is quiet."

  It was meant kindly. He could not think of a way to refuse.

  A few minutes later, mounted on a skittish young stallion, he joined a half dozen other knights in the practice arena. All traces of the tournament were gone.

  The stallion was named Arpeggio. A beautiful bay, the horse had limitless ability, but a poor temperament. He fussed and shied at every excuse, and anything more than the softest reprimand brought him to shuddering, wide-eyed distress. It took all Edouard's patience and skill to calm him, and then to persuade him to complete the basic high school movements on which all the training was based. Gradually the horse settled, and his nervy, erratic progress smoothed to an easy flowing trot.

  Concentrating, Edouard did not notice he was being called until one of the other knights drew his attention to it. Then he saw Michel at the arena's edge.

  He reined the stallion to a walk and made his way to where Michel was waiting. "Good morning." His smile was not returned.

  "Your father wants to see you." Michel was looking at him strangely. After a moment's hesitation, he asked, "What happened between you and Charles last night?"

  It took a moment to register. He stared at Michel. A knot twisted in his belly. Charles had gone to their father. He was a fool to be surprised. First Charles had sent his friends for help, and then he had made sure it came to their father's attention. What else should he have expected from his pompous older brother? "We exchanged hard words," he said. The anger and despair returned.

  "Don't take that tone with me today, nor with your father, if you've any sense."

  The stallion pricked his ears and tensed. Edouard soothed him without thought, his gaze on Michel. "What is this about?"

  "You fought with Charles, or do you deny it?"

  "Gerald told you that? Or was it Charles?"

  "Gerald," Michel said. "Do you deny it?"

  "Would it make any difference if I did?" He was angry now and inclined to be bloody-minded. The look on Michel's face stopped him. "We argued, I hit him a couple of times, Sieur Gerald arrived, and I left."

  "Gerald stopped it then?"

  "No, I stopped it." The stallion sidled nervously. With an effort, he relaxed his hands on the reins. "Is that so hard to believe?"

  "Why did you start a brawl with Charles?"

  He shook his head.

  "You would be wise to answer me."

  "I'll be damned if I will, when you question me like this."

  Michel stared at him, hesitating again. "Charles was found this morning at the bottom of the tower stairs. He had been badly beaten. He had fallen or been thrown down the stairs."

  "Saints of mercy! Is he…?"

  "He should survive. But he has not regained consciousness yet."

  He felt a sudden disorientation as the world shifted around him; his hand jerked on the reins, and the stallion reared. It took him a moment to bring the horse under control. When he could speak, he said, "What happened?

  "No one knows."

  Slowly it came to him. "And that is why you are questioning me. That is why my father wants me?" The horse startled and pranced sideways.

  Michel did not make any concession by his tone or manner. "You were one of the last people to see your brother. He can't tell us anything. Of course, everyone who might be able to help will be spoken to." He looked up and said more softly. "Why did you quarrel? Was it to do with what happened in the melee?"

  Edouard understood then. It all fell into place with a sudden sickening lurch. "You think…" He could not say it.

  "Of course not." Michel reached to catch the stallion's bridle. "But your father has spoken to Gerald, and Philippe and Timo have been to see him. They have admitted their part in what happened at the melee."

  "And accused me of trying to kill Charles?"

  "They sent Gerald to prevent it."

  He had guessed as much, and wondered last night if it had been Charles's intention. "So they suggest that thwarted, I returned to take revenge on my brother." He took a breath. "He can't believe that I would?"

  "Of course not, but neither can he ignore it. He has to ask. Do not make this harder for him, Edouard."

  "That is why you are here, to warn me." Fury and fear collided. "I should thank you?"

  "Edouard, please. It is a damnable thing. Will you at least take my advice?"

  "I understand." He tried and failed to master his anger. Or perhaps it was fear. Why this, now, on top of everything else? Who had a reason to hurt Charles? Sword's blood. Perhaps this was St Andre's doing. Abruptly he twitched the reins from Michel's grasp. "I must see him."

  Edouard spurred the stallion towards the stables. He rode, unseeing, barging past the other knights. Shouts followed him, but he hardly heard them. It felt like a layer of ice was forming, cutting him off from the world. He could not think; his head felt empty. The stallion snorted, and stood trembling when he reined to a sliding halt in the stable yard. Edouard threw the reins to a groom.

  Turning to go, he saw a roan stallion being led out. He stopped to stare, recognizing St Andre's horse. The Marechal had returned. St Andre would wait. He set off at a run; he was halfway to the chateau before it occurred to him to wonder when St Andre had returned.

  He went straight to Charles's apartments. Used to the hustle of comings and goings that usually surrounded his brother, Edouard noticed at once how quiet it was. The junior secretaries and clerks were absent, as was the usual crowd of petitioners awaiting appointments. Charles's personal secretary, Clement, was there waiting awkwardly. Edouard saw Emil, his brother's valet, disappear into the bedroom, and looking round he saw a half dozen or so of Charles's closest friends, among them Philippe and Timo. They stared at him, every face unfriendly. Clearly, the story of last night had spread. Edouard slowed, an argument or worse, a brawl, would serve no one. But he had to see his brother, and he had to know that Charles would be all right. He was beginning to believe this was his fault. A touch on his arm made him jump. A hand slipped into his. He looked down at his sister's pale, exhausted face.

  He bent to kiss her cheek. "Is he all right, Elle? I need to see him."

  "Of course. Come with me." She managed a reassuring smile. "He is not awake yet, and the doctors are with him. You will not be able to stay lo
ng." As they reached the door, she paused. She said nothing, but her eyes warned him.

  Inside, it was quiet and dark. Master Eric stood at the bedside. He moved as they came closer. Edouard saw that he was smiling.

  "You will be glad to know he has woken, briefly, and now he is sleeping. It is a good sign."

  Edouard heard the doctor's words, but his gaze was locked to his brother. A bandage wound around his temple, the thick, dark hair lay disordered around it. Beneath it, his face was swollen and disfigured. Ridiculously, he could hear Charles saying not where it shows. Someone had not cared. Edouard saw the strapped ribs and wrist. Beneath the light sheet, there were other bandages. He realized that the worst of the injuries were hidden. He looked to Master Eric, and something of his panic must have shown. The doctor spoke kindly.

  "He will have a bad few weeks, but we will see him through it. His leg will take longest to heal. Afterwards, it will take time, but he is young and strong. Saints willing, he will heal well."

  "Brother Yann…" He looked for the monk.

  "Has done what he can."

  Edouard did not protest; this was a truth they all lived with. The blessings of Tarsien were great, but the brothers were strict in adherence to the rules of their order. How else could they avoid judging the worth of one life before another? It was winter, the time when Brother Yann was most needed. There was no other healing brother for a hundred leagues. He could not expend all his strength to heal one man, whilst others sickened and died.

  He could not tear his gaze away from his brother's injuries. Had he been the cause of this? Had St Andre made good on one of his threats? He stood there until Eloise touched his arm. Then, reluctantly, he let her lead him away. At the door, he turned back, suddenly anxious. "There should be someone to guard him."

  Eloise stopped too, her hand on the door. Her eyes had filled with tears. After a moment, she said, "His friends are here, it is taken care of. No one will harm him now."

  "Of course." He wanted to stay, but it was not his place.

  When they entered the outer room, she linked her arm through his and walked with him to the door. He dropped a kiss on her head, and unable to find any better words, mumbled, "Thanks, Elle." She squeezed his hand briefly.