"There are whispers of a plot against him."
"What?" It was the last thing he had expected.
"Your father will be matched against Sieur Sylvain de Loristien. Sieur Sylvain will carry an un-rebated lance. It will be made to look like an accident."
"What," he said again stupidly. How could she know these things?
He knew there was to be a joust; as King's Champion, he was expected to take part. He could not think why his father would be invited to compete. It seemed unlikely, but the detail Camille gave was convincing. If someone meant his father harm, the joust was perfect. There were many ways it could be arranged. Sieur Sylvain had no quarrel with Chamfort, but that made him a perfect choice if it was to seem like an accident. "How do you know this?"
"One of the armorer's men was paid to see an un-rebated lance placed ready for Sieur Sylvain. He talked and one of the girls recognized your father's name and told me." She watched his face. "I can't tell you the man's name. I'm sorry," she said. "But I swear the information is good. Whatever the reason, your father is in danger. You must warn him. He can withdraw, plead ill health or injury, without losing face?"
Edouard stared at her. "Who is behind this?"
"I don't know. I was told that Sieur Sylvain will knowingly carry an unrebated lance. But nothing more than that. You can warn your father?"
He could not. He had worked too hard to convince everyone, including his father, of the rift between himself and his family. It was the only way to keep Chamfort safe from his crimes. If his father realized...
To warn him personally was impossible, and to send a warning through someone else risked it being ignored. Whoever was behind this plot, he would not have them guess the truth, that his estrangement from his family was a ruse.
Worse, if his father withdrew whoever meant him harm might try some other means before he could track them down. He had sworn to keep Chamfort free of any taint. To do so he must set himself apart from his family. His fingers sought the comfort of his sword hilt as he struggled to think it through. His father faced danger; he could not reveal himself but neither could he stand by and do nothing.
"You can warn him. There is time for him to withdraw. Surely there is some excuse that will do?" Camille was watching him. No doubt, she had heard of their rift.
"Of course, I will speak to him." He nodded to reassure her. "Thank you."
She did not look reassured.
"You need not worry. I will see no harm comes to him." He paused and said reluctantly, "I have to ask another favor of you. I must know who is behind this. Who means my father harm?"
She nodded once. "I will find out what I can."
"I should go." He knew he was drawing her into something dangerous, and she knew it too. She deserved better from him than half-truths. But there was too much at stake. Two days, it was all he had. "If there is ever anything I can do for you..."
Camille shook her head. "The debt between us is paid."
Chapter 49
Mariette rose early from a sleep plagued by nightmares. The horror of the monk's death, and her failure to protect him, had twisted into dreams of Hugo. In her dreams, she saw Brother Milo broken and bloody, and older nightmares returned; she saw Hugo, alone and desperate, cut down by faceless men. Afraid to sleep, she slipped from the bed and pulled a velvet robe around her shoulders. She drew the shutters back. Beyond the palace walls, dawn was breaking over the city. Another day, she told herself the time for nightmares was past. There was work to be done.
She went to her desk and started work on her correspondence. Later, Sophie brought her breakfast and sat with her while she tried to eat. She had told Sophie everything that had happened, but they did not talk of it. The horror of Brother Milo's death was too immediate, and it had changed something. She felt a new urgency and fear.
When Roslaire arrived, she was ready and waiting. He was elegantly dressed in dark blue velvet. The perfect courtier. As they walked through the palace courtyards, she glanced at his profile, beneath golden curls, a diamond stud glittered in his ear. She was not fooled; it was not just a charming courtier who walked at her side. Last night she had seen the predator, and now she wondered how many other masks he wore.
They did not speak until they were clear of the palace walls. Then he caught hold of her arm, drawing her into a quiet street. He looked down at her, and his gray eyes were very dark. "What do you know about the monk's death?"
"Nothing more than you."
"There were four other killings in the Jallo last night."
"You mean…"
"Four murders, brutal, unnatural enough that even the denizens of the Jallo are afraid." When she did not speak, he continued. "Mariette, I have seen death like that, it was done by no man's hand or weapon. This is no game."
"I tried to tell you that. Can I help it if you would not believe me?"
He laughed, but it was a bitter snarl. "You said nothing of fell creatures and dark sorcery."
"So, why are you here?"
"My fortunes are tied to Ferdinand and Valderon. But there is something dark at work here that I do not like. You say this game has high stakes. But I will not be played for a fool, Mariette."
She pulled free of his hold. "This was never a game. I did not ask for your help, I spoke only to warn you. You saw what they did to Brother Milo. You may make your own choice what to do about it." She glanced around. "This is not the place to discuss such matters."
He nodded once, a curt gesture, and reached to take her arm. For a moment, she wanted to pull away, but he was a man with talents she could not afford to spurn. They fell into step in silence. The Compact's house was not far. In the daylight, the tree lined street and elegant houses seemed to belong to a different world.
Edgar was waiting for them in the salon. He was seated by a crackling log fire. As she entered, he laid down the book he was reading and rose to bow over her hand. His gaze flicked up towards Roslaire, and he nodded welcome. "I will send someone to tell Brother Liam you are here."
"How is he?" Mariette asked.
"Angry. He came to me this morning determined to leave. I barely persuaded him to wait for you." Edgar moved to pour wine for them. "He is an unlikely monk."
"You think he is an impostor?" Roslaire took a glass and moved to stand by the window.
"No, but I do not think he has served his novitiate at Tarsien."
"I believe he has the gift," said Roslaire. "Brother Milo was beyond his help, but I would say he has a powerful gift."
Mariette wondered how he would know that. She wanted to ask him, and about his knowledge of fell creatures and dark sorcery. His words still haunted her. But she hesitated, afraid of what he would say. In the silence, she heard the tread of hurried footsteps, and Brother Liam stood in the doorway. He still wore the gray robe of Tarsien, but it seemed even more unsuited to his powerful frame and his anger.
He came to stand in the center of the room, facing her. "What do you want from me?"
"Help us stop this evil." She had no energy for clever words and promises, or for games. "Tell us what Brother Milo knew." She stated it bluntly, certain that he had no desire for gentleness.
Liam looked at her, and his lips thinned to an angry line. "If I tell you, will you help me find his murderers?"
"Your enemies are our enemies," she said and meant it. "We will not stop until this evil is exposed and crushed." She saw his face, but before he could protest she said, "It is what he would've wanted."
"Perhaps." It was a grudging admission. "But I am not Milo. I will not plead on my knees before your King, or sacrifice a chance for vengeance to some future gain."
Edgar answered him. "And what will satisfy your quest for vengeance. One death, two deaths, does it matter who dies? I believe you know what is at stake. Whatever fell creature killed your friend, do you think this evil is the work of one man?"
"There is always one who leads."
"Perhaps, but I do not think you will easily find that m
an. And if you do, if by some chance you gain your vengeance, he will not be alone in this endeavor, another will soon rise to take his place, and the suffering will continue." Edgar gestured to a seat. "What is to be lost by talking to us?"
Brother Liam did not move. He stood as if planted, and his powerful hands flexed to fists, a furious, futile gesture. Mariette saw his face and knew what lay beyond the anger. She understood.
"We are not your enemy," said Edgar.
Mariette stood up. In the silence, the rustle of her silk skirts was the only sound as she crossed to stand by the monk's side. He did not look at her. Gently she took his arm, drawing him towards a chair. A log fell from the fire, and he tensed like a startled horse. But he let her lead him. When he was seated, he took a shuddering breath.
"What is it you want to know?" he asked.
"Tell us Milo's story," she said, certain that if they could get him to talk there was more chance of winning his trust.
For a long moment, he stared into the fire. "Milo cared for the people." His voice changed as he spoke of Brother Milo, losing most its anger. "He really cared. The rules of Tarsien meant nothing to him, if someone needed his gift he gave it freely, with no thought to the cost." He stopped and turned his face away. "He healed me."
In the silence, the small sounds of the house came to them clearly. A girl's smothered laugh, the creak of the stairs under soft footsteps. Roslaire had settled by the window, his broad shoulders blocked the light. In the firelight, Liam was a hunched figure. She heard his uneven breathing and knew this caused him pain. But she had to know Brother Milo's story, and he was their only hope. After a moment Liam continued.
"My father was a blacksmith. I was determined to be a knight. He made swords, and secretly I took them and practiced. I was strong and grew stronger. Each day I dreamed of the battles I would fight, the men I would kill.
"Ours is a poor village on the southern border, west of Etrives. Each summer the armies gather at Etrives, and men pass through the village on their way to the muster. I would spar with them, and try to persuade them to take me." He choked on a sound between a laugh and a groan. "I was so sure of myself. One day three men came, they drank at the inn, and I sat with them as they told their stories. I boasted of the fine swords my father made.
"Later I took them to the forge." Liam's hands were locked tightly together as the words came faster. "They took the blades. I tried to stop them, but they just laughed. And when I grabbed a sword and challenged them, they cut me and put me down so easily. They took everything and left me to bleed. I would've died, if not for Milo. He risked his life and his vows to heal me. And afterwards he asked for nothing.
"I was too ashamed to stay in the village, so I joined Milo traveling between the villages. I found my gift, and Milo taught me to use it." He looked up. "But there is so much more I must learn, and now…"
"You will find a way to do his work," Mariette said softly.
As the silence lengthened, Edgar shifted in his seat. "Brother Liam, did something happen to the villages? We need to know what brought Brother Milo to court."
"The dark knights came," he said. "And the shadow."
Mariette saw Edgar tense, and she held her breath until Liam spoke again.
"After the summer campaign was over they came. Burning and killing. The few villagers who survived fled. We saw a dozen villages burnt to the ground, the people slaughtered along with their animals. There was nothing left. Milo did his best to help. He sought out the few, terrified survivors. He tended their injuries and spoke to their overlords, begging help. He tried to help them rebuild, but there was a shadow on the land. No one would settle there, the people were afraid, and not only that the dark riders would return."
"You speak of a shadow," said Edgar. "What is this shadow?"
Liam raised his hands in a helpless gesture. "It was something felt more than seen, but real enough nonetheless. Milo believed it an old evil, one known to the Brothers of Tarsien. He named it the Rhiasthe and wanted to travel to Tarsien to seek advice from the Magisters. But with the armies gathering, he was worried the dark riders would return, and the slaughter would start again. That's why he came to Fourges, to petition the King. He was desperate to find a way to protect the people."
Roslaire had moved from the window. "But why would he think that the gathering of the King's army would bring the dark riders."
"Because they were knights."
"How could you know that?" Roslaire asked sharply.
"I may not have had formal training," Liam said bitterly. "But I know enough to recognize skill. And to tell the work of a knight from that of an outlaw."
"You saw them, you would know them again?"
Brother Liam nodded. "Most certainly."
Chapter 50
Edouard woke from a familiar nightmare, the details slipped away, but the feeling of dread remained. It was a moment before he remembered the tournament. The sinking feeling settled like a stone in his stomach. With a curse, he kicked free of the twisted sheets and went to open the shutters. It was just after dawn and a haze of mist lay over the city. Above it, the sky was cloudless and the horizon stained pink and orange by the rising sun. He felt a moment's relief. At least they would not face the dangers of wet and slippery ground.
There was no way he would get back to sleep, so he dressed and went to the stables. The grooms were mucking out, scooping oats into mangers, and carrying hay and water to the hundreds of horses. There was nothing for Edouard to do this early.
To pass the time, he took a horse and rode out of the city and up across the cliffs. They cantered across the turf nibbled close by sheep. The wind swirled up from the sea, buffeting them and making the horse shake its head and buck. Edouard urged it to a gallop. The horse stretched its neck, and soon they skimmed across the grass, leaving the city far behind.
He drew rein near a grove of trees. A narrow track led down through a hollow behind the cliffs to a grassy valley sheltered from the wind. He dismounted there and tethered the horse, leaving it to graze. Then he walked to the cliff's edge. Far below waves pounded the rocky shore. His stomach roiled uneasily, nerves. An unfamiliar sensation. He was not usually nervous before tournaments. But two days spent avoiding his father, appeasing de Nortial, and making preparations, had frayed his nerves and temper.
He shook his head. This was no time for weakness, what he planned would stretch the limits of his ability, and his father's safety depended on his skill and nerve. A seed of doubt niggled, but Edouard forced it down. He was committed, and it was too late to turn back now. When it was done, he swore he would find the man behind the plan to harm his father and make him pay.
He left it as long as he could before starting back. Walking the horse along the cliffs until he reached the road and Fourges lay before him. The tournament ground was set outside the city walls on the meadows above the river. It was already busy. A gathering of brightly colored pavilions and awnings, above them pennants snapped and fluttered in the breeze. The neat horse lines were filling, and the traders' stalls were busy. His gaze was drawn to the forest of lances stacked ready at either end of the lists; Edouard shivered.
He had made sure of the arrangements. There was nothing more he could do. By the time he had returned to the stables, seen to the horse, and chosen a new mount, he was late. Most people were already at the tournament ground, and the roads were clear. As he cantered towards the meadow, he could hear the crowds in the stands cheering the early matches. Arriving at the knights' pavilions, Edouard saw he had timed it well. Jerrott, the boy chosen to act as his squire, was waiting, anxiously. Close by a groom held the bay stallion he had chosen to ride. The horse was tacked up and ready. Seeing him, Jerrott came forward calling out,
"My lord, your first match is the next to run. You have to get dress. The heralds are calling, and we have to tell them that you …"
"I'm here now." His armor was set out ready, and the boy was efficient. It did not take him long to prepare. He
was already walking from the pavilion as Jerrott secured the final straps. The groom brought the stallion forward. It pranced laying its ears back and snapping with nervy bad temper. The man struggled to hold it. Edouard had chosen the horse for its obedience. Hoping he had made the right choice; he climbed onto a mounting block. The groom led the stallion up, and Edouard caught the reins and mounted quickly. He found a smile for the boy. "My helm and standard, Jerrott. Quickly."
The boy ran to grab them, and Edouard set the stallion at a trot towards the lists. The horse humped it back skittered sideways for a few strides, but it soon settled. Relieved, Edouard let his gaze scan the field. Everything seemed normal, knights and squires moved between the horse lines and pavilions; no one was paying him particular attention. He knew it was too late for anything to go wrong, no one could stop it now but, faced with it, he really wished someone would.
It came to him that this was perhaps the most reckless stunt he had ever dreamt up. And it was his father who would pay the price if it went wrong. He was an idiot. For a moment, he could hear Charles' voice telling him so, just as his brother had done so many times. Strangely, the thought settled him. Nothing would go wrong; he was King's Champion, he had the skill to pull this off. And it would offer proof, to any that doubted it, of the rift between him and Chamfort, and distance Chamfort from his failings, should they become known. But most importantly, it would save his father's life, and give him a chance to find the man who threatened it.
He reached the place where the heralds stood and reined the stallion to an accurate halt. Jerrott came running up to announce him, and the plan began to unfold, gaining a momentum of its own as Jerrott called out, "Lord Edouard de Chamfort for the next contest, he is as a replacement riding for Sieur Alain."
The herald looked up sharply from the list of competitors. "Nobody informed me there was to be a change." He glanced back to the lists. "My lord, you know that it is your father you will face?"
Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3) Page 49
