"No, my lord, but I had to know…"
Lorenzo de Etrives gave a grunt of laughter. "And so you risked too much to ask a question that did not need asking. It is hard to believe you are your father's son." He took a step forward and staggered. Jasper was at his side in a moment. The Duke reached for his son's arm, and with his help made it to a seat. For a moment, he sat taking shallow breaths. He glanced up and fixed Edouard with an unforgiving gaze. "Yes, I'm hurt and weaker than they know. But you will tell no one of this, boy."
Edouard shook his head. "Will you manage to ride tomorrow?"
"Of course I'll manage." The Duke snapped. "Would you dare ask your father such a question?"
"Yes." Edouard felt his lips twist. "And worse."
After a moment the Duke laughed. "No wonder you are at odds." Despite the rasping breath, his gaze was unflinching. "Or are you less of a fool than you seem?"
"No, my lord." The silence lengthened, but he would not say anything more.
"Jasper, go check on the injured men and see the physicians have all they need." When his son hesitated, the Duke glared at him. "Now, Spur, and see we are not overheard." He watched his son leave and then turned back to Edouard. "You realize what St Andre intended?"
The question he had dreaded no longer held the same fear, though the Marechal's name raised a chill of apprehension. "Yes, my lord."
"But you were not aware of what he planned?"
To any true knight, the question was beyond forgivable insult. To suggest he had known of treachery on such a scale, known of the risk to Etrives, and said nothing. But Edouard answered softly. "No, my lord."
Lorenzo de Etrives betrayed nothing, though the answer to his question, that it was answered at all, surely gave him a glimpse of the truth. He shifted, taking a moment to find a more comfortable position. When he looked up there was a new wariness in his face and manner. "If you tell me, I will try to advise you, but there is little I can do to help you, boy."
"I can't tell you." He had said too much already, and risked too much coming here, but the risk was worth it to protect Chamfort. "But I will tell you that Chamfort has done nothing against Etrives. Chamfort is completely innocent in this."
"But you are not?" The Duke was ahead of him, frighteningly so.
He said nothing, though silence would damn him well enough. He longed for Charles' skill with words, thinking how well his brother played such verbal battles.
"St Andre has some hold over you." It was not a question. "And you have chosen to run your own course, thinking you can keep your father and Chamfort clear of the mess." The Duke shifted, wincing as he moved. "You're a fool. If he has you, he has your father and Chamfort."
He started to protest, but the Duke cut him off.
"There is not even a chance it could be otherwise. Believe me, I have sons…" He stopped. The silence in the tent echoed, overlaid by the distant murmur of voices. At last, the Duke spoke again, very softly. "If you care for your family, destroy St Andre before he destroys Chamfort."
Chapter 59
Rupert took a careful breath, savoring the fresh air. It was a crisp autumn morning, and he was glad to be outside and back in the saddle, though the reason for his journey was less inspiring. Riding was still uncomfortable, but he had wanted to keep this meeting away from Chamfort, and that gave him a timely reason to ignore his physician's advice. It was in fact past time he got back to normal. The weeks recuperating had left him feeling useless and old, and this was no time for weakness. Everyone left behind at Chamfort seemed tense, distracted by the knowledge that the army gathered at Etrives would have seen battle by now.
Golden leaves drifted from the trees. Absently, his gaze scanned the horizon. Here in the north, the first frost had come already, and the trees had started to turn, every one a different color gold, red, green and brown. Soon it would be winter. It would be warmer in the south, at Etrives. He put the thought aside, unwilling to dwell on what might be occurring at Etrives.
At least the last new from Michel had been good. The twins were safe. They had settled at Castle Etrives. Michel assured him they were well treated and happy. It was a relief. He hoped things stayed settled. Edouard would have been there before he rode with the army. He pushed that thought aside too. There was no reason to think Edouard's arrival would lead to trouble. But, since Fourges, he had had no word from his second son. That was not a thought he wanted to dwell on either.
He had chosen a meeting place just inside the woods so he would not have to ride too far. He did not intend to be completely reckless or ignore all of his physician's advice. He spoke briefly with his Captain and then left the men to wait at the forest's edge. He rode on alone following a grass ride between the trees. His horse's hooves brushed softly through the piled leaves. A pheasant took flight. He watched, marveling at the way the bird's plumage matched the autumn colors. But disguise was never enough to keep the predators away. The thought made him shiver. He scowled, angry at this proof of raw nerves. Since Fourges, it seemed there was always a nagging doubt somewhere in the back of his mind.
His thoughts returned to the present as Daniel moved from cover. Stepping out from the trees, but only just enough to announce his presence. Something in his stance sent a tingle of unease along Rupert's spine and tension renewed the ache around his ribs. He drew rein close by. "What news?"
Daniel's pock marked face seemed more than usually grim and guarded. "I have news of Mayor Arno, and of the shadow knights."
The words, or maybe the tone of them, angered him unreasonably. "I've told you before, don't call them that."
"I have good reason." Daniel glanced away, lips pursed as if he would spit, but he did not. "And the proof you asked for too. Though you won't like it."
"Tell me."
"The villages destroyed by your son and St Andre's men did not shelter outlaws."
The blunt words were like a long dreaded blow. "You have proof?" A band of pain circled his ribs.
"I have spoken with survivors, I have seen the villages. I am certain of it."
"But of course they would deny it. And your certainty is hardly proof."
Daniel hesitated; his gaze flickered to the trees and back. An unguarded response. A betrayal nerves. He did not like that, very little made Daniel nervous and there was no physical threat here.
"The proof comes from a different source," Daniel said. "You will remember we spoke of the village and manor of Debrauche, attacked and burned but not destroyed? No one has ever accused Debrauche of sheltering outlaws. This was not a village on the King's list to be purged."
He realized Daniel expected an answer. "No," he said. "Debrauche was never under suspicion."
Daniel nodded once. "The village was attacked by knights. But Count Guy had found help. Many villagers died, but many survived. There are witnesses in Debrauche, both villagers and the men who came to defend the place. Men who saw the knights. Men who would know them again."
"And…" For it was obvious there was more.
"It was St Andre's men, and your son was among them."
"Edouard?" As if they could be speaking of anyone else.
"Yes."
His horse sidled nervously. By a conscious effort he relaxed, loosening his grip on the reins. He soothed the horse with a touch. "You had better be prepared to back those words?" It came out as a threat.
"The men who helped defend the village have stayed to help rebuild. To defend it again if necessary. They know of this evil; they have been following it, tracking its purpose and thwarting it where they can. They have knowledge of these attacks from other villages, other demesnes. Your son was recognized by members of this group. He is known to them." Daniel hesitated, clearly uncertain now.
"Tell me."
"They claim he has committed other crimes." The man glanced up, a brief eye contact and for a moment something like sympathy in his gaze. "If it's true it's very bad, my lord."
He could not frame the words to ask. The doubt, held a
t bay through long silent weeks, settled on him like a blanket of snow. Chilling, heavy and deadly. He shook it off. "Tell me!"
"My lord," Daniel's voice was strained, a little desperate now. "You have heard stories of the work of these shadow knights. These men claim there are witnesses who have seen your son…"
"Who are these men, what is their part in this?"
"They are part of a Compact formed to oppose this evil. They speak of a conspiracy, led by powerful men, by the Marechal St Andre, my lord. They believe these attacks are not random but form part of some plan against the King and Valderon. They have all suffered in some manner and have stories to tell. That is why they have joined together to oppose this …evil."
Daniel paused, as if to gauge his reaction. He said nothing and Daniel continued.
"The call themselves the Compact. I spoke with Count Guy and the man who leads the Compact's men left at Debrauche." Daniel shrugged. "He convinced me, just as the leaders of the Compact convinced Count Guy. They stood with him to fight. He says if they had not Debrauche would have been destroyed."
"If they are in trouble, why don't they ask Chamfort for help?"
"They are afraid. The men who come to kill and burn are knights, my lord. These people have no doubt of it. In the many places this evil touches, those few who survive never look to their overlords. The shadow knights have taught them to fear all knights. Those few overlords who have their people's trust, and who have learned enough to become involved, have met bad ends. They claim that was what happened to Hugo de Montmercy."
Rupert held back a curse. His mind reeled as a dozen disparate threads intertwined and then spun together, forming and reforming in a terrifying pattern. Daniel was watching him, his face anxious. He knew he should ask questions, somehow sow enough doubt to counteract and slow the spread of this tale. A tale that would destroy his family. But he could not manage to form words or find a question. He was afraid of the answers, afraid to make it worse.
Clearly unnerved by the silence, Daniel cleared his throat, "They claim de Montmercy's widow and cousin are founder members of this Compact."
###
Charles looked ruefully at his desk. After a morning's work, the pile of papers, letters and reports had not significantly reduced. To think he had sought this out. He stood up, gingerly stretching his leg, and walked to the window trying not to limp. A limp was a sign of weakness.
The trees were like clouds of red, brown and gold. Leaves lay thick on the ground. Autumn had reached Chamfort. It would be a while longer before it reached Etrives. His thoughts often strayed to Etrives nowadays. But whatever the weather, the fighting was likely over. Word had come a week ago that the army had reached Ralmadre. No one really expected William of Ettivar to allow a siege to develop, and any battle would be over by now.
The ache of worry that was with him constantly deepened. Several times over the last week, he had come close to speaking to his father, telling him everything. It was fear that stopped him. Fear that he had made the wrong choice in remaining silent this long. Fear that it was too late. Fear of how his father would react. It made it so much worse that the twins were at Etrives and within St Andre's reach.
From what Edouard said, St Andre was clever; the boys were not there by chance. The Marechal had played Edouard perfectly. Of course, Edouard had been ripe for the fall, and a reckless idiot to boot. But St Andre was playing a larger game and he had influence, or his friends did. That was the terrifying part. Now he had had time to think it through, he was certain that the Marechal was not alone in this. Someone cleverer yet stood in the shadows behind him. Charles had thought of little else through the last weeks. Each day he had picked through the strands of information Edouard had given him and searched his own correspondence for every other piece of news that related to St Andre. Even with the limited resources available to him at Chamfort, he had found enough to believe his brother's claim was true. The King's first general was a traitor to his country and King, and the scope of his plans was unthinkable.
Charles shifted, easing his aching leg. He longed to damn Edouard to hell for saddling him with this mess, but whilst a few weeks ago he would have said the words and meant them, now he could not even think them. Somehow everything that had been lost and soured between them was put right by one stupid, ill considered, unreasonable plea for help. It was typical of his wretched brother. And that was the other reason he had not spoken to their father. Loyalty to his damn fool brother.
He heard the commotion of arrival through the closed door and guessed at once who it must be. He was turning as the door opened. His father strode in, leaving an anxious Claude hovering in the doorway. Charles took one look at his father's face and sent the secretary away.
He turned back slowly to find his father standing by the desk, waiting. His face looked pinched and drawn as if he was in pain. There was a strangeness around his eyes.
Charles gestured towards a chair and went to pour wine. He kept his voice light, despite his growing anxiety. "You've been riding, against your doctor's explicit orders." When he turned back, his father had not moved. His voice was hoarse as he barked a question.
"What happened between you and Edouard after the melee? No..." He shook his head. "First, tell me, were you responsible for what happened at the melee?"
"Why ask that now?" He came to a halt holding the glasses carefully steady.
"Just answer me, Charles."
"Yes, I was responsible. Though I never meant it to turn out as it did. It was meant to take him down a peg or two, but of course it was ill conceived and dangerous. It went wrong, and the trouble afterward was my fault."
"What happened?"
"Edouard and I nearly came to blows, but we sorted it out. That was when Sieur Gerald arrived."
"And later…"
"Father, why are you asking me again now?"
"Is it not obvious, Charles?" His father eyes were hard as ice. He had rarely seen him so angry. "Who attacked you?"
"We've been over this. I don't know." Charles took a breath, wondering what in hell had happened to provoke this. His father must have heard something. The urge to confide what he knew was unbearably strong. But with his father in this mood, an inner voice urged him to be cautious. To find out exactly had happened. "Will you please tell me what is wrong? Why are you asking about this now?"
"Saint's blood, Charles, after everything that has happened recently it must be obvious."
"No, it's not obvious to me."
"I do not have time for games, Charles." His father's look was unforgiving. "I have learned that the Marechal St Andre is involved in a plot to destabilize Valderon and overthrow Ferdinand. And your brother seems to be implicated."
He took a deep breath, readying himself to speak. But he did not. Over the last days he had almost wished to be forced to speak, but faced with it, he found the reality quite different. A glance at his father's face was enough to show the scale of his mistake. His father, hearing the news from someone else had at least, begun to believe what he had been told. God only knew what that might be, or what he was thinking. Charles felt a touch of panic. It increased as his father spoke.
"And however unthinkable, I am trying to ascertain if your brother has also been attempting to remove members of this family who stand between him and the throne."
"No! You can't believe that."
"You think it is impossible?" His father's gaze was merciless. "Well, there is evidence, undeniable evidence, that your brother has acted in a way I would have believed impossible." A quick breath and an unguarded moment, a glimpse of pain that was not only physical. "Have you heard further from the aldermen about Mayor Arno's death, or the villages?"
"No." He had not been to the last two meetings. He had sent messages pleading ill health, but he had not told his father this. "I was not able to attend."
His father seemed too distracted to think this strange. "Mayor Arno came to Chamfort on the afternoon of the day he died. He was not seen al
ive after that time." Moving carefully he settled into a chair and raised his hand for the wine. He drank. "No one saw him leave. Nothing has been made of this so far. His body was found in the town, and no one has looked to Chamfort. But you should know, the Mayor had written to the King making accusations of treason against Chamfort. If ever anyone looks to Chamfort, it will be seen we had a powerful motive."
"Did you know about this before…?"
"Yes."
"But we did not plan to kill the Mayor," Charles said to buy time.
"No, we did not. But it seems possible Edouard or St Andre did. Evidence suggests they have done a great deal worse." His fingers were white around the glass.
"Edouard…" He did not know how to begin.
His father looked up, "If you know anything against your brother, Charles, tell me now. I will not hold it against you. This is long past petty childhood rivalries."
"No it's not like that," he said, trying to gather his wits, think this through. "Edouard came to me a few weeks ago. Before he went to Etrives."
"He came to Chamfort?" Incredulity and another flash of expression quickly hidden.
"Yes, in secret." Saint's blood he could not see his way through this. "He told me he was in trouble. He asked for my help." He was about to tell his father everything, but the words froze on his tongue. He was about to admit on Edouard's behalf that every crime his father suspected him of was true. How could he convince him Edouard was innocent of complicity in this horror? Was it even true, Edouard had not denied there was blood on his hands.
"For mercy's sake, Charles, tell me what happened?"
"It's difficult. This is not my story, and Edouard asked me to keep silent."
His father was staring at him, fury mixed with horror. "Charles, can you think that anything you will say is worse than what I've heard this morning? If there is cause to hope what I have heard is not true, tell me!"
"It is both true and untrue," he said sharply, caught by a painful anger to be in this impossible position. "St Andre is a traitor and murderer. Edouard is caught up in his treachery. To an extent where guilt or innocence are no longer easily judged." He saw his father's face. "I believe he is innocent of intent in every way that matters. But he has done things that will make him guilty in most men's eyes."
Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3) Page 60
