Outside, a page was waiting with an urgent summons from his father. In silence, he followed the boy to his father's study. Edouard paused at the door. To be summoned to the Prince's study was something no one at Chamfort took lightly. Today it felt like a death sentence. He knocked and waited until he was given leave to enter. His father was seated at his desk. At his back the window overlooking the town of Chamfort, far below, and the woods beyond. The Prince was, or appeared to be, engrossed in the papers he was studying. Edouard walked forward to the usual place in front of the desk and stood waiting until his father set the papers aside.
Looking up, his father studied him without offering any greeting. Under that chilly blue gaze, Edouard had cause to remember the state of his clothes and appearance.
"Where did you spend last night?" his father asked with curt distaste.
He was unprepared for the question. For all his dread of this meeting, it had not occurred to him his father would ask for an alibi. The implication rocked him. That his father could truly believe he would hurt Charles like that.
"Where were you?"
He would not admit the truth; he could not shame Mariette. There were other reasons, too, and on top of them, the dull ache of fear and anger that his father would question him like this, and would show this much doubt. "Why do you ask?" He made it a challenge.
Slowly, the Prince stood up. "Let me see your hands."
Edouard stepped forward a pace and thrust his hands out, knuckles raised. Scuffed and scratched, still dirty from the stables, but no mark that would suggest he had employed his fists to beat his brother half to death. After a moment, his father waved him away and then sat down.
"A number of people believe you are responsible for the attack on your brother." After this brutal statement, he let the silence stretch before he continued. "I would hear your answer to their accusations."
"Who accuses me?"
"That is not important. Tell me what happened between you and Charles last night."
The anger was fading, replaced by a sick emptiness. "We met in the weapons room to settle an argument; Sieur Gerald will tell you how that ended." The words sounded cold, emotionless. He could not break free from the feeling that he was trapped beneath a growing layer of ice. "I did not see Charles again."
"And where did you go after you left the weapons room? Your valet did not see you. No one saw you before this morning."
He shook his head and remained silent, unable to tell the truth and unwilling to be caught in a lie.
"I do not want to believe you would hurt your brother." After a moment his father continued, "You would prefer a more generous endorsement?"
Edouard shook his head. He was shivering again. As the silence lengthened, he tried to master himself, but it was hard with the memory of Charles's injuries so clear in his head. His father watched him, but there was no softening in his manner, or tone, when he spoke again.
"There are obviously matters we must resolve, but first there are some things you should know. I have tried to explain, but you do not seem to grasp the seriousness of our situation. Perhaps this will convince you it is not a game." If he intended to sound ominous, he succeeded. "Ferdinand has decided that Chamfort must reduce its strength. The Marechal St Andre has been given the task of reviewing Chamfort and choosing which knights, and how many, might better serve the King in Fourges. I am not sure if he has spoken of this to you?"
Edouard shook his head.
"It is a matter of some concern, but," his father hesitated. "I would reassure you that the Marechal has acted honorably in this task, and has done his best to handle it in a way that will cause least harm. I am grateful to him for it."
Before he could think how to respond to this, his father continued. "Ferdinand has also required that your brothers are sent to Etrives for fostering."
"Louis and Henri?"
"Yes. It is not, in itself, an unreasonable request, or one that can be easily refused. They will travel south in a few weeks."
"You will let them go?"
"There is no reason not to," His father said in a tone that precluded discussion. "It is likely that resistance to the idea would provoke something less acceptable." After a moment's silence, he added, "I will send Michel with them." Again, he did not wait for comment. "There is another matter, and it concerns Eloise. There are rumors to suggest that Lorenzo of Etrives may be considering an offer for her hand for his eldest son. He may have Ferdinand's support in this."
The pause was longer this time, but, struggling to comprehend it all Edouard made no comment. At last, his father sat back, but his gaze remained fixed. "I should perhaps have spoken of these matters sooner. It is not easy to hear, but it is important you understand what Chamfort faces now."
He stood silent. The ice was spreading through him and the fear. Every threat St Andre had spoken of, bar one, was realized, or partly realized. And the threat to his father was the most dangerous; the punishment for treason was death. He tried to remember the precise sequence of St Andre's words; they had been both warning and threat. He could not recall that the difference had been made clear, and why should it have been? While it was certain that St Andre could not personally command such diverse matters, it was equally clear he had the means to make good on his promise.
He realized his father had said something, and after a pause was repeating it.
"I have spoken with the Marechal St Andre this morning."
This time, he heard but, guessing what must come, he did not know how to respond to the twisted irony of the situation.
"He will be leaving soon, and he begged a favor," his father said. Edouard already knew what the favor would be. Without expression, the Prince continued, "His men will ride once more into the great wood in search of brigands, and he has asked that you ride with them." The Prince hesitated, and then continued as if reaching a decision. "He has also requested that you go with him to Fourges to give a report to the King's Council, and after to stay and serve him at court, and then with the army when it marches south in the spring."
"And you have refused him?" His mouth was so dry it was hard to form the words.
"No. You have led the action against these rebels. The summons to attend and report to the King's Council is not one that can be refused."
"But the other request, you have refused it?" He felt there was no air in the room.
"No." His father rose and turned towards the window. "I think it best you leave Chamfort," he said, and his voice betrayed nothing. Nor did his face when he turned back. "And it is, after all, what you wanted."
His father was turning him off. It was like a knife to the ribs. Suddenly, Edouard understood what he must do. As in battle, when faced with it, he mastered himself completely. He held his father's gaze and was almost able to match that chilling reserve. His voice was calm when he answered. "It is. I will gladly accompany the Marechal. At least he has faith in me." The words near stuck in his throat, but his father did not seem to notice.
Prince Rupert nodded once. "It is something to have such a man's trust."
The irony of the words nearly broke Edouard. Before he could think, or speak, his father continued.
"I have tried to caution you, to make you understand that…" The Prince took a moment to choose the word. "Skill can become an addiction, its use a temptation. In truth, men can develop an unnatural affinity for the arts of war. It is in their blood. Such men can be dangerous." The pause lengthened, drawn out intolerably. "A man must be more than a weapon. I cannot change what you are, Edouard. Perhaps you lacked a mother's touch; no doubt you are what I have made you." Only the rigidity of the Prince's posture betrayed any distress at the words he spoke. "A weapon needs a master. I hope the Marechal is the man."
The silence was heavy as the moment before a storm. Edouard bit his lip and remained silent. A few chosen words would set his course, but he could not speak. He waited to be dismissed or questioned further.
It seemed his father was waiti
ng for something. After a moment, he returned to his seat and the papers he had been studying. He smoothed them, and then, looking up he said, "I am sorry about the horse. If you wish to, choose any from Chamfort. I will tell Antonio."
"Thank you, it is a generous offer, but I would not think to deprive Chamfort."
His father nodded once. "You will let me know your plans."
"If this is what you think of me, why would you care?"
"You're my son. Nothing changes that."
"More's the pity." He turned away so his father would not see his face.
"Edouard."
He paused, one hand on the door, but he did not turn back.
"Edouard!"
With a wrench of his arm, he slammed the door. He wondered if he had done enough, and thought he had. His father had already judged him, and he would be certain of his decision now. Edouard was possessed by a terrible urge to laughter. All his life he had sought and striven for his father's good opinion, how easily it was thrown away.
Denied the release he found in battle, the surge of emotion was brutal. He strode through the chateau ignoring everyone. His father's words echoed endlessly in his head, mocking the urge to violence that rode him like a devil.
He nearly went to Mariette, but he could not burden her with this. And part of him was afraid that she too would judge him. The thought of trying to explain terrified him; he would lose her. His prowling brought him to the empty chapel. In the silence, he followed the worn steps to the crypt and made his way among the tombs. He knelt before his mother's tomb and gazed at the cold marble; it was all he remembered of her face.
He knelt there shivering as the reaction hit him. What had he done? A cold pit of fear settled in his belly. Already his father spurned and despised him. What would he do if he learned the truth? Would his father ever forgive him? The thought was too hard to bear. Instead, he concentrated on what he must do to see this thing through, to make right his mistakes.
The rift was set. It would be known that his father had sent him away. That he did not trust him. There would be speculation about what had happened to Charles. Some people already thought he was responsible. Edouard shuddered at the thought.
To finish what he had started, he must go with St Andre and set himself apart from Chamfort. Once at court, a few words against his father and the rumors would start. The worse the news, the quicker the tale would spread. There were ways he could increase the rift with his father. And that would be enough to protect Chamfort against the future, against a time when his mistakes became known.
To protect his family, he would accept St Andre's bargain. It was madness to think that his father, and maybe Charles, could stand with him against St Andre and survive Ferdinand's anger.
Most of all, nothing could change the things he had done. No excuse or plea of ignorance could make it right. Edouard took a deep breath; his mistakes were set in innocent blood. His father had seen what he was and turned from him. But he would not ask his father and Charles to share his fall. They at least would be innocent. It was all he could give his family now.
He drew his sword, the only true touchstone he had left. Kneeling at his mother's tomb, he pressed his palm against the fine edge. As blood welled and dripped to the floor beneath her tomb, he swore to resist the evil he had served unwittingly and, with his last blood, to protect his family and Chamfort.
THE END OF BOOK ONE
Book Two
Chapter 39
Mariette left Chateau Chamfort early in the morning. A veil of mist hung over the chateau's frosty gardens, and a red sun was rising slowly on the horizon. The Chateau's towers sparkled beneath layers of frost. After a last glance back, she watched the gardens slip past, hardly noticing their white, frosted beauty. Guilt at the clandestine nature of her departure soured everything. She had slipped away without seeing anyone, leaving a note for Prince Rupert. It felt as if she was running away.
She had not told Edouard she was leaving. The moment he left her bed, she had risen to complete her packing. He would hear she was gone from his father. Her note to Rupert pleaded urgent business at court. A note was enough of an excuse for a houseguest departing in a hurry.
It was no way to leave a lover.
Was Edouard a lover or a calculating betrayer? The question echoed constantly in her thoughts. She had lain awake much of the night, watching him sleep, trying to decide. Why was he pleased that Remy was gone? And so certain he had run away. He seemed to know the boy had cause to be scared. How did he know? Had he played her for a fool? The seed of doubt had grown in the dark hours of the night. When he woke, she had feigned sleep, avoiding the chance to speak with him.
As the carriage rattled south along winter-rutted roads, she had too much time to think. Her feeling of betrayal grew. She wondered how great a fool Edouard had made of her. Had he come to her knowing how Hugo died, laughing with St Andre as he played the innocent with her. She almost began to think it was he who had initiated their affair. It made some sense of Hugo's death, a plan to capture the domains of Montmercy and Broudogne.
When the carriage reached the woods and passed beneath the shadow of the trees, she made an effort to banish such thoughts. She must set her emotions aside, or the doubt would send her mad. She forced herself to concentrate on estate business. Although she had not planned to, she must return to Fourges, to the royal court. St Andre would soon be there. It was the only place where she could hope to find the truth.
The change of plans meant there were letters and dispatches from the stewards at Montmercy and Broudogne to read, and instructions to send in response. And she must write a letter for Francis. Returning to court meant it would be some time before she could visit her son and daughter. She felt a wave of sadness and guilt. Searching among her belongings, she found a small miniature of her son's face. How much had he changed in the months since she had seen him? He would have grown, and soon he would not be a child anymore. Did he hate her for leaving him so long? Did he remember her? It was a terrible thought.
She had no picture of Caterine. She felt breathless for a moment, dazed by the insanity of what she was doing. Her baby daughter, Hugo's last child, would be changing every day, and she was missing that time with her. But the stakes in the game she was playing were so high. She could not quit now? Hugo would want her to see this through to its end. If he had discovered a threat to Valderon, to those he loved, he would have given everything to protect the people.
In the same way, it was her duty to see the guilty exposed and brought to justice. There were so many questions. And she must complete a personal quest. Who was responsible for Hugo's murder? Was Edouard involved with St Andre's plan to steal the throne, even at the risk of civil war?
The risk she was taking put everything she held dear in danger. But it was about more than personal safety. Civil war would rip Valderon apart. That was the heart of it and it was not something she could walk away from. Her children were safe for now, and she must protect her son's inheritance, and retain control of her life if she was to keep them both safe. The thought steadied her. Her children were the anchor against this insanity, a promise to the future.
The road south followed the river, busy with boats and ferries. It was a day's journey to the inn and dusk was falling when the cavalcade reached the village where they would rest for the night. Arcais was a small village, huddled between the river and the limestone cliffs, surrounded by trees. Mariette saw the first pale stone cottages as the carriage swung from the road into the wide yard of the Swan Inn. The inn, a rambling stone building, stood at the heart of the village. To either side lay the barns and stables and down the street, the blacksmith's forge. The men and wagons soon filled the yard, and as they halted she could hear Stefan issuing orders.
She was glad to dismount from the carriage and sure of her welcome. They were expected, and it was a place she used regularly. The inn offered fine accommodation and the chance of privacy; dispatches and couriers often waited for her her
e. The innkeeper was a trustworthy man and an excellent host. She crossed the yard amid a familiar bustle of activity. Grooms hurried to help with the horses and see the wagons safely stowed. Under Stefan's command, her men attended to their duties with brisk efficiency. Mario, the innkeeper, hurried forward to greet her. She smiled as he bid her welcome, thinking that he did not seem quite himself. His smile lacked its usual sparkle and, for a big man, he looked a little haggard.
Inside, though the inn was spotless as usual, the common room seemed strangely quiet. Mario escorted her upstairs to her usual rooms. He seemed distracted, and his normal bright conversation was strained and false. She thanked him, but asked no questions and made no comment. Stefan was friendly with the innkeeper. If there was anything she should know, her Captain would tell her.
While Sophie unpacked what was necessary to make the room comfortable, Mariette completed and sealed the instructions for Montmercy and Broudogne. Stefan would send messengers the next morning. Finished, she changed and ate a light supper. Then she sent for her Captain.
Stefan arrived promptly. Tall enough that he had to bend beneath the lintel, with wide, powerful shoulders and a bulk of impressive muscle; he had the presence to intimidate. He rarely called on that strength. The Captain moved and spoke softly, but the men respected him. His intelligence and quiet competence ensured that wherever she wished to travel or lodge, she was secure and untroubled. She trusted him completely. As Sophie did, he shared her commitment to the Compact. He gave a brief bow and stood quietly to hear her orders. When she had finished, he asked several questions and then stepped forward to hand her two packets of papers.
"These were waiting with Mario, my lady. Also, I would like to speak to you about the innkeeper and his family."
Taking the packets, she saw at a glance who they were from and set them aside. She turned back to Stefan. "Is there something wrong?"
Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3) Page 35
