Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3)

by Richard Crawford

  The Valderon center had pushed the Ettivarans back. To his right he saw the Chamfort knights had kept pace with his men. At their head, Angelo was determinedly matching him, cutting a swathe through the Ettivaran line. Edouard grinned. But as he looked to the left wing, his grin died. The men of Etrives had been driven back, pushed into the treacherous valley. For a moment, he was frozen by the sight, unable to believe what he was seeing.

  Outnumbered, and facing the household knights of William of Ettivar the Etrives flank was under threat of collapse. The Duke, nearly cut off, was hardly visible so closely was he surrounded by the enemy. Desperately Edouard searched the hillside for St Andre, surely reinforcements must have been sent to bolster the left flank.

  He saw none. It seemed the Duke and his men were being left to their fate, but he could see no reason for it. A dark shadow of suspicion rocked him. Unnerved he looked around; his men were the closest to the Etrives wing, at the far left of the center. Swinging his stallion round, he raised his sword, and then hesitated, cursing. Without orders, dare he abandon the center to go to Etrives aid? Worse, if he did, would the men follow him, or would they judge him too inexperienced to make such a decision.

  Edouard looked down and across the narrow valley. He knew that if he did not act soon Lorenzo de Etrives, and what was left of his men, would be overwhelmed and slaughtered. There was no choice; he could not watch them die and do nothing. Raising his sword and shouting a battle cry to gather his men, he spurred the stallion, battering his way through the Ettivarans and down into the valley. The bit of open ground between the center and the left wing was boggy and rough. Edouard cursed, slowing the stallion before it foundered in the heavy ground. He searched for the best way through aware that, with every wasted moment, the besieged Duke and his men were dying.

  The stallion struggled through the mud, reaching the valley bottom and a network of shallow streams. Spurring on Edouard splashed across, his throat hoarse from yelling. The valley sloped gently upwards, but now it was covered with vicious bushes thick with thorns. Committed, he galloped on. He heard hooves behind him and was relieved to know he was not alone. His men had followed. He only hoped it would be to something other than death or dishonor.

  Reaching the valley crest and the besieged left wing, he saw they had been blessed with unholy luck. The Ettivarans, focused on their prey, had not noticed the new threat and, amazingly, the ill planned dash had brought him and his men to the perfect place. Roaring a battle cry, hardly realizing he was shouting for Chamfort and Vallentin, he spurred the stallion into the Ettivaran ranks. His men followed.

  Taken by surprise, the Ettivarans reeled under this new threat. Given a moment's respite the Duke raised his sword, roaring for Etrives and, with a bravery that chilled the nerves, his exhausted men rallied. Standing on ground littered with their fallen, they regrouped and pressed forward to form a line with Edouard's men. Amazed and elated by their success, Edouard turned to encourage his men. His cry of approval died. Behind him two blue and silver standards fluttered and bobbed. The sight rocked him breathless as he realized the Chamfort knights had followed him.

  It gave him new energy. Elated he spurred on, cutting his way through the Ettivarans, barely aware that he was outdistancing his men. Suddenly he was surrounded. Knowing his knights would come after him, Edouard swung his sword, holding off the attackers pressing close on every side. His stallion fought too, ears laid back, teeth bared to snap and maim. Hard-pressed, Edouard waited for help.

  From his left he saw a dark stallion bearing down on them. It was too late to avoid the collision. The dark stallion crashed hard against his horse's shoulder, there was a terrible crack, and they were falling. In his head, a familiar voice repeated an often voiced warning, for a knight in full armor, falling among the mud and blood of the battlefield was death.

  He tried to roll, but he hit the ground too hard. By the time he levered himself up on one elbow the first enemy man at arms was attacking. Edouard blocked the hurried pike thrust with his lower arm, but even protected by the vambrace the blow was agony. Wincing he ducked and fought. More men arrived. A mace swung towards his head. Smashing into his shoulder it knocked him flat in the mud. Trapped behind a forest of legs, he could not move. An Ettivaran soldier knelt on his chest, pinning him down. The soldier raised his sword. Edouard anticipated the final stabbing cuts. The sun was blocked by a huge shadow. For a heartbeat, Edouard thought it was over then the man pinning him was smashed aside. The men surrounding him scattered and a familiar voice yelled.

  "On your feet, idiot."

  It took him two attempts before he managed to scramble upright, his sword gripped in a rigidly frozen fist. Pain stabbed along his other arm and shoulder. Edouard staggered against the chestnut stallion's sweat soaked shoulder, fighting to breathe. His legs started to buckle. A moment later a hand caught him.

  "Christ almighty, do you remember nothing you were taught. Do you think I have time to nursemaid you?"

  Braced upright, Edouard swore. "Did I ask you to? Anyway, what the fuck are you doing here?" His vision cleared, and he saw Angelo was grinning with a measure of desperate relief. The battle raged around them, a ring of Chamfort knights holding it at bay for the moment.

  "Charming as always," said Angelo. "And what else could we do but follow, with you yelling for Chamfort?" He turned away, shouting for a horse. "Can you manage?"

  "Of course." Struggling to master the pain, Edouard spoke through gritted teeth. "You shouldn't have followed. I've no orders for this."

  "What?" Typically, Angelo did not wait for an answer, dismissing the problem with a shake of his head. "Well you've saved Etrives, no one will be complaining. You've made us all heroes."

  He hoped it would be that simple, but a shadow of doubt clouded his elation. A knight led a gray horse forward, and with Angelo's help, he managed to mount. The pain in his left arm had settled to a stabbing ache. Angelo stood at his horse's side for a moment.

  "You'll be all right?"

  Edouard nodded and then as Angelo turned away, said quickly, "Thanks Angel."

  "Don't call me that."

  Within the hour, the fighting began to ease. It was clear there would be no victory on this field for Valderon or Ettivar, but of the two commanders, King William would be better pleased. He had protected Ralmadre. For that alone, he would claim the victory.

  Time passed in a blur. Edouard watched the sun and tried to hold on. He fought, but he no longer had the strength to lead his men from the front. It did not matter, Lorenzo de Etrives carried them all forward. Despite the sickening pain, Edouard kept pace, aware his men were sheltering him as best they could, and that Angelo was never far away. Even through the pain, he knew that, fighting alongside the men of Etrives, the Chamfort knights were superb.

  When the trumpets sounded, he sagged against the gray stallion's neck. Vaguely aware as his horse followed others, picking its way across a battlefield littered with the dead and dying.

  ####

  It was dark and the camp was settling for the night. Fires burned low as exhausted men slept. Others sat talking. Above the murmur of conversation, Edouard heard someone singing, another man was moaning softly. Scouts and patrols clattered past. Looking to the heart of the camp, he saw a crowd gathered around St Andre's pavilion. Lights blazed in the tents where the physicians worked. He made his way towards them, determined to check on the injured Chamfort knights. Before he reached the tent, a squire came running with a summons to report to St Andre.

  With a shiver of gut churning apprehension, he turned back towards the command tent. He had not seen St Andre since the battle ended and there had been no word until now. He walked slowly, trying to prepare for what must surely come. Distracted he was startled into an exclamation when a figure appeared from the darkness, blocking his way. He halted, sword half drawn, until a familiar voice hissed.

  "It's me, idiot." Angelo fell into step at his side. "Where are you going?"

  It was too da
rk to see Angelo's face. Edouard let his sword slide back into its scabbard and glanced around to see if there was anyone close by. "I have been summoned by St Andre."

  Angelo did not answer at once. Then he said, "The Duke de Etrives lost two sons today."

  "I heard that."

  The next silence lasted a dozen heartbeats. A dozen terrifying heartbeats. Angelo was never slow to tell him he had done wrong. But when Angelo finally spoke, his voice was rough, angry. "Word in the camp is that it was your inexperience that led to the delay in relieving the Duke." After another pause Angelo said, "They are saying there were orders."

  "I received no orders." He had expected something like this, but the reality of St Andre's attack hit him like a fall of rock.

  "I believe you." Angelo responded, quick and certain.

  That brought an ache to his throat and kept him silent for a moment. "Who's spreading this story?"

  "I don't know, it's one of those whispers that goes round. The biggest worry will be what Lorenzo de Etrives makes of it."

  Edouard felt a vague stir of anger. He had fought for Etrives, risked everything, along with Angelo and the other Chamfort knights. He said nothing, knowing Angelo was right and, given the recent tensions between Chamfort and Etrives, it looked bad. He sighed, wondering what St Andre had planned. Was this a plot to take out Chamfort and Etrives? Were none of them to survive? Or was he to survive further compromised with Chamfort poised to take the blame. Despite his oath, he had done nothing to protect Chamfort and his family. Angelo spoke, echoing his thought.

  "What have you found out about St Andre's plans?"

  "Nothing."

  "Nothing?" Angelo was silent until he realized he would get no further answer, then he was impatient. "Did you know St Andre's son traveled with the army and has remained at Castle Etrives?"

  Edouard vaguely remembered hearing that Clement St Andre had joined his father. "What of it?" His mind was on the coming interview with St Andre. Clement did not concern him. The boy was barely sixteen years old, an effete wimp who had as yet had none of his father's ability or charisma.

  "He was betrothed to Rafaela de Etrives last week."

  "What?" He stopped, stunned by this news. "Does Ferdinand know?"

  "Of course." Angelo snapped. "The Duke would not marry his daughter without the King's consent. The match is probably St Andre's reward." Angelo sounded impatient. "How could you not know about this? You realize what it means?"

  Of course he realized. In today's battle two of the Duke's sons had been killed, his first and third born children. He had one remaining son, the youngest, Jasper, but already Clement St Andre's match had improved beyond belief. "St Andre would not dare..." He stood thinking. "Unless he had a ready scapegoat." It started to make sense.

  "And who will doubt or suspect St Andre?"

  Edouard did not answer, wondering uneasily if all along St Andre had set Chamfort against Etrives for this purpose. The ambition of it was too large, and yet…

  The command tent was in sight. Angelo had slowed. "Do you want me to come with you, speak for you?"

  "No." It came out too sharply. He caught Angelo's arm, halting him as he started to turn away. "St Andre may accuse me, but I don't want Chamfort involved." The silence made it clear that Angelo disagreed. "I will find you later." He held Angelo's gaze willing him to understand, to be reasonable for once. "Please, Angel, I have to keep Chamfort out of this."

  Angelo's face reflected his own doubt, and anger, but he answered quietly. "All right, for now." With a jerk, Angelo freed his arm. "But I make no promises if…"

  "If things go badly, you will speak to Michel before you do anything." Edouard made his voice harsh, calling on an authority he had never before claimed. "Swear it."

  After a long moment, Angelo nodded. They stood in silence as Edouard searched for words, but there was nothing he could say. He turned into the darkness. When he looked back, Angelo had not moved. He did not look back again.

  The sides of St Andre's pavilion had been raised to allow access to all the commanders and senior knights, for the messengers and scouts reporting to him. Torches and braziers lit the hellish scene. A throng of bloodied men had gathered, many wounded, all still in armor streaked with blood, their faces drawn by exhaustion. The commanders and knights of St Andre's army, haggard with the reality of defeat. Edouard walked slowly forward. As he was recognized the buzz of voices quieted. A path opened through the crowd.

  He had little choice but to follow it to the center of the pavilion. To St Andre's towering, unbowed presence. The Marechal turned to face him. In one look he felt the lash of St Andre's fury. Then St Andre turned away without speaking. The silence deepened. For a moment, Edouard kept his gaze on St Andre, hoping that this day's disaster was not to be laid at his door. The betrayal he was accused of was beyond belief. The moment and his last hope passed.

  The scene took on a surreal quality. The familiar became strange. He glanced to a table spread with maps and plans for retreat through Ettivaran country. Close by there was a camp bed. A man was sitting there, attended by physicians. Through eyes hazed by more than exhaustion, Edouard recognized Lorenzo de Etrives. A figure moved from the shadows to stand at the Duke's shoulder. It was a moment before Edouard recognized Jasper de Etrives, his face and hair were so thickly matted with blood. He bent to speak to his father.

  The Duke looked up. The passion and fire that had carried them all through the hell of the battlefield was gone. He watched as Lorenzo de Etrives struggled to find the strength to stand, the Duke's lips were white rimmed and tight with pain, his face pale as milk. He reached for his son's arm and came slowly to his feet.

  Edouard stood frozen as father and son advanced towards him. Time slowed, it was like being trapped in a nightmare. Edouard saw the lines pain and grief had carved into Duke Lorenzo's face. Silence spread across the pavilion as the gathered men watched. St Andre said nothing. If there had been any doubt, Edouard knew for certain that he was to be the Marechal's scapegoat.

  Lorenzo de Etrives and his one surviving son moved slowly towards him. He saw anger and a measure of shock on their faces. He understood too well; it was impossible to comprehend the treachery that had taken place today. The Duke was unarmed. Jasper de Etrives was wearing a sword. As they took the last steps that would bring them to face him, Edouard held himself rigidly still. He had no defense against St Andre's betrayal.

  The Duke de Etrives did not smile. He looked as if he would never smile again. He raised his arm. Edouard met his gaze, braced for the blow. Slowly the Duke reached to place a hand on his shoulder. Briefly, Lorenzo looked past Edouard to where St Andre stood. But his gaze came back, unflinching, to hold Edouard's. "It was bravely done. Without your aid, Etrives would have perished today. We owe you and Chamfort a great debt." Lorenzo of Etrives spoke the words clearly. Edouard swayed, unable to believe he was reprieved. The grip on his shoulder tightened. The Duke held the pose a moment longer as the commanders and knights watched. Then with a nod to Edouard, he limped on. The crowd parted to let him through.

  Light headed with shock, Edouard stood without moving. His gaze followed the Duke until the sight was blocked by St Andre's approach.

  "Yes, bravely done, Edouard."

  Finally, St Andre gave his endorsement, but too little and too late to stem the rumors. Enough doubt had been sown for those present to believe the Marechal was keeping silent to protect his favorite, and prevent strife between Chamfort and Etrives. He could see the fury St Andre kept hidden.

  St Andre did not keep him. Dismissed, Edouard paced his small tent, haunted by the memory of St Andre's rage. He wondered where that rage would find outlet. He could guess the target, and knew he would find no ease or rest with that fear in his head. He pulled a cloak over his bloodstained armor and went to find the Duke de Etrives' pavilion.

  The Etrives men, what was left of them, were camped on the east side of the encampment. The Duke's pavilion was set at the heart of the camp
and well-guarded. Admitted surprisingly quickly, Edouard found himself unprepared to face Jasper de Etrives. He had only one thought in coming here, and his concern had not included how to face a family's personal tragedy and grief. He glanced round, but there was no sign of the Duke.

  "If your father is well enough, you should take your men and ride for Etrives tomorrow." He stated it bluntly, having no better plan. Charles would know how to play this game, but he was out of his depth.

  "Why?" Jasper asked.

  "I fear for your safety if you remain with the army." Even as the words were spoken, there was movement among the shadows on the far side of the pavilion. He spun round his gaze searching the dark corner.

  Lorenzo de Etrives spoke from the camp bed where he lay. "Dangerous words, boy, ill-advised words." The Duke swung his legs to the ground. "And the risk you take coming here." He limped into the light. "It is the work of a fool or madmen. Are you a fool, boy?"

  Edouard had no answer. The layers of betrayal and doubt were too tangled. In the flickering light, the Duke's grim smile acknowledged it. His gaze, fixed on Edouard, did not waver. He saw a glint of steel behind the pain and exhaustion, a reminder of who this man was. "What would drive you to such rash action? What is it you fear?" the Duke asked.

  "I fear for your personal safety, and your son's."

  The Duke smiled again, a grimace of teeth and glittering eyes. "After today, do you think we are unprepared?"

  "There is no threat from Chamfort." He blurted the words like a fool, unable to leave without hearing them said, and hearing Etrives answer. He had to know that the Duke's most public gesture of support had been more than a political feint.

  The Duke did not smile. His words came slow and heavy with exhausted anger. "If I doubted it, can you believe you would have had anything from me tonight, boy, but the kiss of cold steel?"