Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3)

by Richard Crawford

  "I do," he said, and tried to ignore the flicker of panic. It did not help that in a moment, he would see his father for the first time since he left Chamfort.

  The man stared at him and then fidgeted nervously with his papers. "It has been agreed?" He did not ask by whom.

  His mouth suddenly dry, Edouard nodded. He realized this man might also be held answerable for what was about to happen. The herald hesitated, scanning the papers as if they held the answer to his dilemma. Edouard could hear the sound of the crowd from beyond the barrier. A page came running to the gates enquiring about the delay. Edouard heard the boy's voice, squeaky with nerves as he asked why the King's brother was being kept waiting.

  The herald turned, "If you are sure, my lord?" Edouard nodded, and the herald turned with a harassed oath, signaling for the gates to be opened.

  Edouard rode into the lists. Jerrott hurried beside him, and the blue and silver standard of Chamfort snapped open in the breeze. Beneath the King's stand, his opponent was waiting. A knight in engraved armor on a familiar black stallion, his squire held a matching blue and silver standard. It fluttered gently. The babble of chatter died. In the sudden silence, velvet and silk rustled as the court turned to stare. Sensing something was wrong his father looked round. Edouard caught the moment of surprise, quickly masked, and followed by a familiar half smile.

  Edouard did not smile; he doubted that he could, his face had frozen in the mask he had chosen. He reined the stallion to a prancing halt, turning to check that Jerrott was beside him. After a moment of confusion, the heralds were announcing him.

  "Edouard, this is an unexpected pleasure." His father said softly, his words pitched to be heard above the herald's voice. There might have been the faintest hint of sarcasm, Edouard was not sure.

  "Sieur Alain is indisposed," he said, "I didn't think you would mind?" Turning to look at his father was an effort, as if his head was attached to a block of stone. "You know how useless I am with a lance. It will be an easy first run for you."

  His father frowned, but it was not the usual expression of impatience. "I don't think anyone could accurately describe you as useless with any weapon."

  "I meant the lance is not my greatest skill." He tried to sound casual, but he had to turn away from his father's searching gaze.

  "And, if I didn't know you that might almost be reassuring." His father sounded a little annoyed.

  "Do you want me to withdraw?" he snapped and choked on a mistimed breath. He waited, wondering how after everything he could be so stupid. Above them, among the rich hangings, tapestries and cushions of the royal stand, Ferdinand was watching. Edouard let his gaze slide across the rows of faces, he saw Mariette with her golden haired corsair, and a thickset young man in a plain jacket.

  "Of course not," said his father. There was definite impatience now, and something more. "How ridiculous would that look?"

  Edouard turned away without answering. It was important this exchange look right. He had managed to make it obviously awkward without any effort. It might have been funny, his uncanny ability to annoy his father, but he wasn't in the mood for humor.

  He concentrated on the heralds, who seemed to have finished their lengthy announcements. A moment later, Ferdinand gave the signal to commence. The drums beat out a thunderous tattoo.

  Jerrott and the other squire were with the heralds completing the formalities. The boys returned, and each indicated the end of the lists where they would start. Edouard heard that he was drawn to start at the south end of the lists. He attempted to swallow, but found his mouth was too dry. His father rode past and said something. Edouard did not hear and made no attempt to answer.

  He took his helm from Jerrott and rammed it on. Then he wheeled the stallion and cantered to the southern end of the lists. Among the stacked lances was the one he had caused to be placed there. Jerrott joined him and went to select a lance. Edouard hesitated for a moment before making his choice, wondering if he should leave it for the final run. He pointed and the boy lifted the lance. Taking it, Edouard felt sick.

  He thought it felt heavier, but likely that was his imagination. Jerrott had not noticed anything. Raising the lance, Edouard felt his shoulders take the strain. He rode to his place and turned to face down the lists. At the far end, his father was ready.

  The day seemed too bright and time slowed. A breeze ruffled the stallion's mane. The awnings fluttered and cracked. Trumpets shrilled to a crescendo. He had rehearsed this a hundred times, the run must be straight and true, the strike would be heavy, but if kept within the area that was safe the damage should be limited to severe bruising, perhaps cracked ribs. The strike correctly directed would cause injury, but it would not kill. His father had excellent jousting armor. Edouard remembered to breathe.

  The herald signaled. Edouard set his stallion to a trot and lowered the lance to slant across his body. He spurred on, and the horse leaped to a gallop, running straight and true. The noise of the crowd reached him over the pounding hooves, but the watching faces blurred. He reined the stallion towards the barrier. He had chosen the stallion because he had an obedient temperament. The horse answered the touch of the reins and took a perfect line within feet of the shoulder high barrier. Edouard guessed that his father would aim for a head strike, the highest scoring attaint. It did not matter what his father did, he would do nothing to avoid it. Instead, he must concentrate on making sure his strike was perfect.

  The distance between them closed fast. The stallion had settled to a gallop, hooves pounding in rhythm. Edouard was aware of very little else. Only the weight of the lance, pulling at his shoulder and wrist as he fought to hold it steady and aligned, each shifting moment, with the white and gilt of his father's breastplate.

  The impact was sudden. His father's lance struck and glanced off his helm, kindly. It was the force of his own strike that rocked him in the saddle. Despite the vicious impact the lance did not break. The shock half winded him. Edouard saw his father receive the full slamming impact. He was knocked backward and then, as the high cantle held him, sideways. Edouard's stallion carried him past and he could not see what happened next. The strike had been true and well placed. His stallion's pace slackened. They reached the end of the lists, and the horse slowed of its own accord to a walk. The noise of the crowd had dropped to a strange murmur of sound. Still holding his unbroken lance, Edouard turned.

  He saw the black stallion first, at the far end of the lists, rider-less. He could not see what lay beyond the barrier. He reined his stallion round to approach the far side of the lists. He saw his father had fallen close beneath the royal stand. He lay unmoving. The heralds were already kneeling at his side, and other men were hurrying to join them, among them the pale robes of a cleric of Tarsien. Edouard recognized Brother Claude. It meant Arnaud was here; he had not expected that.

  Still holding the unbroken lance, he let his stallion pace towards the men kneeling around his father's body. Jerrott came running to his side. It reminded him that he needed to think. He flung down the lance and dismounted, calling Jerrott to him. He dispatched the boy to take the stallion from the lists. Then he walked closer. He heard an agonized gasp and knew his father was alive. He hadn't doubted, but it was a relief nonetheless. He could not tell whether he was conscious, and he did not approach to find out.

  Men were running up with a litter. Edouard stood watching. He felt dazed. Nobody spoke to him. A herald lifted the lance from the ground. As his father was carried away, Edouard was faced by another herald, backed by two of the King's men.

  "Lord Edouard, you will accompany us to the King."

  It was not a question. The crowd watched in silence. The men flanked him as he walked to the royal stand and climbed the steps to face his uncle. Ferdinand was dressed in rich black fur, and as he turned it moved with him, sinuous and shiny. His expression was one of concern. At his side the ambassador, dressed in unattractive green and gray, sat blank faced at this unfortunate turn of events.

 
Edouard did not look for Arnaud. He dropped to one knee. A page came forward to help him with his gauntlets and take his helm. Bareheaded, he waited for Ferdinand to speak. His father was alive and safe. It was all that mattered.

  Relief dominated everything, but the other part of his mind knew that, whatever happened, the full accounting would not be held in public. He closed his eyes for a moment. It was the herald who spoke. "Lord Edouard, the King has called you before him to answer why you have carried a sharpened lance in a joust a plaisance. Injury has been caused, the extent of which is not yet known."

  He looked up and answered as though it was the King who had spoken, "And I am sorry for it. But I chose the lance from those provided, sire."

  The herald glanced to Ferdinand and then said, "You claim not to have known you carried an illegal and dangerous weapon?"

  "I do, sire."

  There was a moment's silence before the herald asked, "Who chose the lance, my lord, you or your squire?"

  "I did, sire." This was why it had been important to send Jerrott away. He hoped they would not send for him, the boy did not deserve to be implicated in this.

  Ferdinand made a sign, and the herald stepped back. "So, Edouard." Behind the false concern, there was amusement, barely disguised. "This is unfortunate."

  Edouard did not attempt to answer. Ferdinand let the silence grow. "Of course there must be a full enquiry. You will no doubt wish to know how something so terrible could have occurred?"

  "Yes, sire."

  "In the meantime, your presence in the joust is required. You will complete the courses you are due to run. And you will run the further courses your father was due to contest against Sieur Sylvain. It seems appropriate you honor his commitment?"

  "Yes, sire," he answered at once accepting the King's command, but it was a moment before he understood what it meant. By the time, he fully realized what it entailed, Ferdinand was speaking again. Staring at his uncle, he felt like laughing. It was the perfect punishment, or test. He wondered if Ferdinand knew how perfect. He must face the man who had planned to kill his father. The thought chilled him. Was Ferdinand behind the attempt on his father's life?

  Ferdinand had stopped talking and was looking at him with a certain impatience. Edouard realized that he had been dismissed. He stood up and bowed carefully. Rising, his gaze met Arnaud's. He stepped back and turned away quickly. Beyond Arnaud, Mariette and her strange companion were watching.

  The walk back through the lists was long. Outside the gates, the next pair of knights were waiting. Someone called out to him, but he did not pause. He felt people staring. He kept going until he came in sight of the pavilion and saw Jerrott waiting. There was no putting it off and the boy, seeing him, was already hurrying forward.

  "My lord, I am sorry. I didn't know...

  Edouard shook his head to silence him. He put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "It was not your fault, Jerrott. I chose the lance."

  "But you could not know. The lance was there among the others for anyone to take. How could they make such a mistake? Your father, he might have been..."

  They had reached the pavilion. He stood awkwardly silent as the boy defended him. It seemed it had not occurred to Jerrott to question the sudden change in opponent, or his choice of lance. Others would of course question it, but there would be no proof, just doubt. They would question Jerrott. Edouard realized how badly the boy would take it and felt suddenly and violently sick.

  "Jerrott." He stopped the boy's anxious tirade. "The heralds will speak to you. Just tell them what happened, if their questions seem strange do not worry." Jerrott was staring at him with wide, confused eyes. "They have to investigate what happened. It is normal, you need not worry." Before Jerrott could question this, Edouard set him a list of tasks and left him to prepare for the match against Sieur Sylvain.

  It was impossible to find anywhere to be alone. In the end, he just walked, ignoring everything around him. He had not thought to arrange a way to get news of his father, and it was too late now. He could hardly send openly, like a dutiful, concerned son, and risk the whole dangerous game. If the news was bad, no doubt he would hear soon enough.

  There were practical matters to consider. He forced himself to concentrate. In a short while, by the King's order, he must face Sieur Sylvain. If he tried to avoid the contest it would arouse suspicion, and he had risked too much to let that happen now. He must ride his father's courses as if unaware of the plot. Somewhere among the stacks, another unrebated lance was waiting. Would Sylvain use it? He had no way of knowing and no choice to but to see the thing through. If it was reckless, it was also fitting.

  Edouard felt strangely calm as he walked back to the pavilion. Jerrott had everything immaculately prepared. He sent the boy to find pen and paper and when it arrived took the time to write a short note. By the time he had finished, folded and sealed it, the groom was leading the stallion round. With Jerrott's help, Edouard dressed and made the final preparations. He took what precautions he could, adding extra padding. He managed a smile for the boy as he mounted.

  Across the field, Sieur Sylvain was already walking his stallion towards the lists. Edouard hesitated and then spurred on to catch him. Sylvain de Wintair turned as he approached. The knight was a handsome man, his chestnut brown hair disarrayed by the wind. There were five years between them so Edouard did not know him well and, though he had tried, he had not managed to learn much more about the knight. Sylvain's father had taken the King's Championship once. They were an old family, with lands in the far west. Sylvain a second son, had been a squire at Etrives, and served St Andre for a short while. It was rumored they had parted on bad terms, but Edouard had not been able to find out why.

  The knight showed no discomfort greeting him. The sunlight glittered off his gilt and gold armor. "Edouard, how is your father?"

  "A bit sore. But he'll be fine."

  "Nasty accident, but it could have been worse. Misplaced, a blow like that from an un-rebated lance can kill." There was nothing in the knight's voice, beyond polite concern. After a moment he continued, "It seems you have been blessed with both good and ill fortune today?"

  "It would seem so."

  Holding his gaze, De Wintair smiled. "It is strange, an un-rebated lance here, how could that happen?"

  "How would I know?" Edouard said raising a gauntleted hand and letting his fingers curl to a fist. "What are you suggesting?"

  "Nothing, it was a just question. And one surely of concern to us all, if it could happen once..."

  It might almost be considered a threat, if you knew what this man had planned. Yet there was nothing but concern in the knight's voice. Before Edouard could begin to frame an answer, they reached the gates and the herald. It was the same man. He stared at Edouard, listened as the squires announced them, and then turned fussily to his lists. He looked up.

  Edouard spoke before he could complain. "The change is by the King's order." He wondered as he spoke, what those words meant to the knight waiting silently at his side. They had an immediate effect on the wretched herald, he stepped sharply aside motioning for the gates to be opened.

  Edouard glanced to his left and met de Wintair's gaze, together they rode into the lists. Their entrance was met with muted applause. It unsettled Edouard. It was worse as they reined to a halt beneath the gaze of the court. There was a murmur of comment. Edouard could feel the glances of speculation. He stared ahead, but there were faces he could not ignore. He saw Arnaud, watching anxiously. Other faces were less friendly, Jordan Camillac, brother to the Duke de Etrives, Duke Roch de Isdorielle and more surprisingly, Basile de Autrens, the Chancellor.

  The King was watching. He was smiling, but it was not a pleasant smile. Ferdinand turned, looking back over his shoulder to address the man seated behind him. Edouard saw another face he recognized, St Andre. It was a shock; he had not expected to see St Andre here. The Marechal leaned forward as Ferdinand spoke. His gaze was directed down towards the lists. Edouard saw th
e Marechal smile. He shivered and without thought looked back to Arnaud. It was foolish; there was nothing the Prince could do to help him. Arnaud smiled.

  Edouard raised a hand to salute him, thinking he could ask for no more loyal friend. It came to him, suddenly, that he did not deserve such loyalty. As if to accompany this thought, an ominous roll of drums sounded, indicating the heralds were ready. At his side, Sieur Sylvain de Wintair turned and murmured the standard words of salute. Edouard replied.

  He turned the stallion and rode to the end of the lists. Jerrott was waiting for him. Drawing rein he took a lance. The crowd were shouting, but he could not hear the words. He took a steadying breath and let the horse pace forward until they were facing down the lists. The stallion jogged on the spot. Without thought, he spoke to soothe the horse as he watched de Wintair. The knight had selected his lance, now he raised his hand to say he was ready. The herald turned. After a moment, Edouard raised his hand. The trumpets shrilled.

  Edouard touched his spurs to his stallion's sides. The horse leaped forward, too eager, and he had to use the curb, gently reining it towards the barrier. The stallion responded, steadying to a canter as he brought his lance into position. Releasing the curb, he let the stallion increase its pace. He saw de Wintair spur his horse to a gallop, his lance held ready.

  There was no way to tell what the knight planned, and de Wintair gave no clue, his face and eyes hidden beneath his helm. Edouard saw, beyond the slender deadly shaft, the knight's aquiline steel visage, a terrifying inhuman opponent. He knew de Wintair would see the same. In the last strides, as the lances dipped and steadied, it was clear they were both aiming for the body. Fighting instinct, Edouard held his stallion to the line. The impact was sudden and heart-stoppingly hard. It rocked him. Both lances shattered.

  His stallion did not break pace, galloping on and only slowing as they reached the end of the lists. Edouard managed to take a breath, throwing the shattered lance aside and gathering his reins. The sudden, intense relief left him dizzy. He heard the heralds call the scores, equal points; it had been a fine run.