Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3)

by Richard Crawford

  Daniel turned from the map to prowl the room. "I do not think it is that simple, my lord. We know little about these outlaw knights." He stressed the word knights. "We do know that they are organized, efficient and merciless. They come from nowhere, burn, destroy and disappear, leaving no witnesses, or none that will talk. What common outlaw plans so well, or executes the plan so scrupulously? Until this last attack on the village of Debrauche, the dark knights had never failed and had left no witnesses. For the first time they have slipped up. In the last days, word has come south; the village of Debrauche was attacked, but not destroyed. The Count and his people managed to defend the village. There are survivors who have seen these knights."

  "Knights?" The word stuck in his throat. "Why do keep calling them knights?"

  "It is what the people are calling them. Black knights, shadow knights, dark knights." Daniel came back to the desk, bending low to study the map. "Word has been slow to travel, but now we may have answers." Something in his face suggested that the answers would not be pleasant. "I will ride north to Debrauche and discover more. If it is your wish?"

  He ignored the question for the moment. "Something has changed? Why have I heard nothing of this?" It did not make sense. He knew there was more. Something Daniel would not say. "Why do they not call on Chamfort's strength?"

  "As I said, word travels slowly, my lord." Daniel's gaze slid away. "And it seems the Count has found allies. A band of armed men prepared to garrison the village and stand with him against the raiders."

  "Mercenaries?" Rupert did not like the sound of the word. He felt something bad was about to become much worse.

  "I don't know, my lord. If I could go to Debrauche I would be able to tell you more. And there are survivors who have seen these raiders."

  "Go north then, speak with Count Guy. When you have answers bring them to me. We must act, and quickly." The great woods of Chamfort were vast, and deep within them were countless remote villages that had little time or trust for distant overlords and laws. "Whatever these raiders are, unchecked this violence and lawlessness will spread like a plague. I will not let the woods return to the dark ways." As he finished, the pain stabbed across his chest. It took all his control not to gasp aloud.

  Daniel had started towards the door, but he turned back. After a moment he spoke. "My lord, there is more if you would hear it?"

  "Of course," he said, impatient with the endless hedging. He knew Daniel played games, but he was very good at what he did. Rupert believed he had his loyalty, for now at least.

  "There is a story going round. It is little more than rumor..."

  "Tell me."

  "They claim that the knights who burn and murder innocent villages are the same who came dispense the King's justice." Daniel stopped, as if he regretted the words. It was a terrible accusation.

  "That is madness. Edouard rode with St Andre's knights when they carried out the King's orders."

  The silence lengthened. When Daniel continued, his reluctance was more convincing than any show of bravado. "These people know a knight from an outlaw. To them one knight might look much like another, my lord. I do not say there is any truth in it, but it is a dangerous story."

  "Dangerous! It is a false and foolish story." His ribs ached with every breath. "And you will do nothing that gives such nonsense credence."

  "Of course, my lord."

  "The boy will escort you out."

  Daniel bowed, accepting the dismissal. When he was gone, Rupert closed his eyes and drew a long steadying breath. Dangerous. Such a rumor was beyond dangerous. It was impossible, unthinkable, and yet... He pressed a hand to his aching ribs. There was an answer, one that would make sense of the many strange things that had happened. But he could not believe it, would not believe it. He sent for Charles.

  It took some time for his eldest son to arrive. Rupert waved him to a seat, watching as Charles crossed the room. He walked slowly; his limp was pronounced, despite the effort he made to hide it. They regarded each other in silence.

  "What happened?"

  "What do you mean?" Charles said looking almost guilty.

  "You look exhausted, what have the aldermen done, or said, now?"

  Charles managed a weak laugh. "The usual nonsense, it's nothing I can't handle. You look less than fresh yourself?"

  "A visit from Daniel," he admitted.

  "Is it wise for him to be seen here?"

  "Well, I can hardly go to him, and I need up to date information." Rupert looked down, his gaze tracing lines across the map. "The attacks in the great wood continue."

  "I know, the aldermen have heard the same, and they are troubled."

  "What have they heard?" He looked up, watching his son's face.

  Charles shrugged. "Most of it is little more than rumor."

  "Still, it is helps to know these things." He waited, but Charles seemed reluctant to share the aldermen's concerns. Usually he thought of them as little more than a joke. Now he seemed worried. It was unsettling.

  "The attacks continue and the aldermen are unhappy about it. But there is also some confusion," Charles hesitated. "Somehow the raiders' attacks and the action of St Andre's men have become confused." Charles had chosen his words carefully, but Rupert knew there was something wrong with them. He puzzled over it as Charles continued. "I suppose it is possible St Andre's men may have been too heavy handed, or even misdirected."

  "Misdirected?"

  "The aldermen believe St Andre's information was incorrect." He did not say the King's information. "The villages did not shelter rebels."

  "On what evidence?"

  "They do not have evidence, yet. I have asked them to find the proof." Charles shifted in the chair, easing his leg straight. For a moment his fingers drummed against the wood, he folded his arms.

  "What's the matter, Charles?"

  "My leg aches."

  "And these rumors?"

  "Of course I don't like them." Charles admitted, with a worried frown. "It makes me wonder about St Andre, what do we really know of him, or his ambitions?" He asked the question softly, reasonably, as if voicing nothing more than an unpleasant possibility

  Rupert's senses pricked. Something was wrong. "Very little," he admitted, watching his son carefully. "But Edouard thinks highly of him, that is surely endorsement enough?"

  Charles shrugged and looked down. "Maybe." The silence lengthened. Rupert waited for the diatribe, the inevitable list of complaint and criticism. He waited even when it was clear Charles would say nothing more. Eventually he asked, "Is there anything else I should know?"

  Charles looked up then and shook his head. He seemed relieved as he came to his feet, wincing slightly. "Nothing that will not keep until tomorrow."

  Lightning flashed. A roll of thunder echoed across the woods.

  "There's going to be a storm," said Charles, his gaze on the distant woods.

  Chapter 54

  Edouard replayed the conversation with Charles over and over in his head. Mostly it had gone better than he could have hoped. Charles had been fair, but far from happy. That was to be expected, receiving such news, such an undeserved burden. There were things he should have said to his brother, but it was too late now.

  He hardly noticed when dark clouds swept the light away. A flash of lightning crackled above the trees. He felt the black horse tense. A moment later thunder rolled across the sky. Edouard glanced up into the ominous quiet, then, suddenly, the rain came. The black horse laid its ears back and crabbed sideways as rain lashed them. With a curse, Edouard spurred the black on; there was no safe shelter in the woods in a storm like the one coming.

  Raindrops fell, heavy as pebbles, dashing leaves from the trees. The rain filled puddles in an instant, and soon formed streams along the roadside. Crouched low over his horse's neck, Edouard put his trust in the black. He was all but blind to anything but the faintest outline of the road ahead.

  The forest submitted to the storm's power. Trees swayed and bowed. Str
ips of lightning ripped the sky. Branches fell, dragging others with them. Infected by the wildness, whipped on before it, Edouard urged the black faster. Soaked through in moments, his clothes clung tight as skin, and soon he was chilled beyond feeling. The saddle and reins were wet and slippery. He had to rely on the black's good schooling and sense.

  The rain did not ease. Water beat from the sky and tumbled across the road, ripping earth and stone away, replacing it with rushing torrents. Lost to the storm's rhythm, horse and rider hurtled against it.

  The road ahead sloped downhill. Edouard realized the footing was treacherous now. The rain had carved deep potholes and gullies that lay hidden beneath the puddles. He tried to steady the black, but the reins slipped through his fingers. Even as he struggled to gather them, the road beneath the black's off fore leg gave way. Suddenly they were falling. The big horse struggled to recover, but their momentum was too great. The black hit the road, legs flailing, sliding helpless among a shower of mud and stones.

  Thrown clear to land among the sodden grass at the forest's edge, Edouard rolled and picked himself up. There was a moment of silence, even the rain seemed to pause; he turned anxiously towards the horse. With a frantic scramble, the black clambered to its feet. Legs braced the horse shuddered. The black took a cautious step and gazed back at him.

  Edouard limped forward and caught the reins. He took time to pat the horse's neck then, with a guilty prayer, he ran his hand down its legs, looking for injuries. One hock was grazed, but not too badly, not enough to make the horse unsound. Slowly Edouard walked the black forward and cursed as it stepped haltingly, lame. Lifting its hoof, he saw the metal shoe was gone, ripped off in the fall. Thankful the black had suffered no permanent harm; he gathered the reins and reached to pat the horse's muddy neck.

  "Let's see if we can find you a dry bed for the night."

  He led the horse forward again. The black moved willingly, only slightly sore. Edouard sighed as he trudged through the rain on foot. The delay would cost him but, in the wilds of Chamfort woods, he would not find a horse to match the black. With luck, re-shod, the horse would be sound in the morning. He would make it back to the army before St Andre noticed he was missing. He squinted through the rain as he tried to get his bearings, praying there was a village and a good blacksmith close by.

  It was dark before he finally reached a village. He recognized it as Arcais; a small place, huddled by the river beneath limestone cliffs. Edouard knew the village, and the inn. Mariette stayed here.

  He did not want to think of Mariette. He did not want to remember their last meeting, and how badly he had behaved. There had been no chance to apologize to her before he left Fourges. No chance to make things right. He wished it had been possible to tell her the truth, but he could not risk betraying himself. Either way, she would hate him. He pushed the thought aside. For now, all that mattered was that he protect his family and find a way to defeat St Andre. He could not hope to win Mariette back until he had made things right.

  He was tired. The meeting with Charles, and riding away afterward, had been harder than he expected. The temptation to stay at Chamfort had surprised him. But that was not an option. Not when it would put his family in danger. Tomorrow he must ride for Etrives and join St Andre and the army.

  Tonight, he needed a stable for the black and a bed. It should not be a problem. The Swan Inn was close by. He knew there was a good blacksmith in the village. It was too late to bother him now, but in the morning the black would be well looked after. Tired and wringing wet Edouard walked on until he sighted the inn. He tethered the black outside and, pulling his hat low, steeled himself to enter. It was close enough to Chamfort that there was a chance someone here might recognize him. It was a risk he would have to take.

  Inside, the inn was crowded, noisy and very busy. Every table and corner was taken, a large group of men clustered around the fire. It was hardly surprising to find the place busy on such a night. He hoped there was a room left. A large man approached him with a rueful smile.

  "Greetings friend, on this terrible night, I'm Mario, the innkeeper. I'm sorry, but we've no rooms left, not even floor space."

  Edouard could not face going back out into the rain. "Would you have stabling for one horse?"

  "Aye, I suppose we can manage that." The man glanced towards a heavyset woman distributing plates of stew at a nearby table.

  "Could I sleep in the barn, and get a meal?"

  "Don't see why not. You'll be no trouble in the barn and we've plenty of stew made." As he finished, the woman looked up, scowling.

  "I told you to send any newcomers away, Mario. We've no room." She plonked the final plate onto the table.

  "It's alright, Alice. He'll make a bed in the barn, and we can spare a plate of food."

  She shrugged in annoyance. Edouard hurried to agree terms and pay the landlord before the woman could refuse. With a sigh, he went back out into the rain to collect the black. The horse was waiting dejectedly, head hung low. He patted the horse's wet neck and promised, "We'll have you warm and fed in a moment." Inside the barn was comfortingly dry, and the contented sound of feeding animals welcomed them.

  Leading the black to an empty stall, Edouard removed its tack and took a large handful of coarse yellow straw. Briskly he rubbed the horse down, exchanging the straw for fresh until the black's coat was dry. He spent time softly rubbing its long ears until they were warm; then he fetched an armful of hay and a scoop of oats.

  With the horse settled, he cleaned the grazed hock and prepared a bran poultice. As he placed it over the injured hock, the black, who had recovered his temper, snorted and conveyed his displeasure with a wicked cow-kick. The kick connected catching Edouard in a sensitive area. Bent double, he staggered back. His hands dropped to shelter the injured area, and the poultice fell into the straw. He grunted as the wall brought him up short. The black, still eyeing him with distrust, swung his powerful hindquarters. Gasping, Edouard dodged but only just. Losing patience he muttered a string of vicious curses that ended with a snarling rebuke directed to the black's backside, "I'm trying to help, you pox ridden nag, but kick me like that again and it'll be the last thing you'll do."

  A burst of laughter met this rebuke. For a moment he froze. With an effort, he straightened and turned. A girl stood by the stall entrance. She was smiling, but not in a particularly admiring way. He felt himself flush.

  After staring at him for a long moment she said, "It's best not to lose your temper with them, or so my Ma says."

  "Thank you for the advice," he said, trying to muster some dignity. "I don't suppose your Ma has any advice about poulticing a bruised hock?"

  The girl frowned. She had green eyes, chestnut hair and cream skin dotted with freckles. "Of course a fine gentleman like yourself is not used to such tasks. Perhaps I can help?"

  He was about to decline the offer, but she had already slipped beneath the rail. The black turned, eyeing her with distrust. Edouard watched the horse, for all his good qualities, the black had a mean temper. He should really warn the girl off, but she had annoyed him.

  The girl walked forward slowly, crooning a few words to the black. The horse dropped his head to nuzzle her hand. Edouard watched, surprised, and a little displeased to see his horse won over so easily. After reaching to pat the black's arched neck, the girl scooped the poultice from the straw. She inspected it critically.

  "Bran, not the best choice but I suppose it will do." She let her hand trace a gentle line from the horse's withers to hindquarters and down to the injured hock. Crooning words that made no sense, she found the wound and laid the poultice gently over it. Edouard stared in amazement as the black stood quietly and allowed her to bind it in place.

  Finished she went to rub the black's long ears. The horse tugged contentedly at his hay. "He's warm and dry, he'll do fine now."

  "I know," said Edouard who was not warm or dry, and was starting to feel hard done by.

  "I brought your meal. It wi
ll have cooled now." She did not seem concerned, at least not in the way she had been for his horse. He supposed that was fair enough. With a last pat for the black, she slipped beneath the rail. "Food's on the chest over there."

  With a shake of his head, Edouard went to retrieve it. He settled on the chest, the stew was congealed and near cold, but the bread was fresh, and he was too tired and hungry to worry. He shivered, thinking that something hot would have been nice. He wondered if the black would be sound in the morning. It would be dangerous to delay another day, and he did not want to leave the horse. He shivered again. The girl had nearly reached the door when she turned round and marched back to stand in front of him. He ignored her. She studied him for a moment.

  "You're wet."

  "Yes."

  "And cold."

  "Does that please you?" She was really annoying him now.

  "But you rubbed the horse down and made sure he was warm?"

  "Yes."

  "I thought..." As he looked up, she shrugged. "I don't usually mistake people."

  Something about her admission made him smile. "We're even then. I don't usually find anyone who can manage my horses better than I do."

  She smiled back. "To make amends I will fetch you some clothes and get yours dried." She had reached the door. "And maybe something hot would be nice?"

  "Thanks." He wondered how she had known he was cold. But at least she no longer thought he was cruel to his horses.

  She returned as he finished the stew. She was carrying an armful of clothes and a steaming jug. Shoving the clothes into his arms, she stood waiting.

  "Get changed then."

  He looked around and, as she smiled, ducked quickly into the black's stall. The horse turned, pricking his ears. Sliding past the sleek hindquarters Edouard changed, cold hands fumbling as he tried to hurry. He emerged, holding the loose cotton trousers up with one hand. His glared and dared her to laugh. She returned his stare straight-faced.

  "The clothes are my father's. He is a little, larger. But the scullion boy is too small, and he does not have clothes to spare."