Remy heard what Jaime did not say. He looked round the table and saw that same knowledge in the faces. For a moment no one spoke.
"We must go to the King," the Duchess said at last.
"You think he will listen," Mathieu said. "And what of your concerns for Chamfort?"
"We cannot wait any longer."
Chapter 65
The steep hill made each step a struggle. Breathing hard, Edouard reached the crest and came to a halt. He stood looking down on Fourges, the King's city. Behind him, shadow flooded the valleys. His horse came to a grateful halt beside him.
Dizzy with exhaustion himself, Edouard longed to sit down and rest. Instead, he glanced at the sky judging how little daylight was left. He needed to reach the city gates before dark. He had dismounted at the foot of the hill to lead his blown horse, but exhaustion had made every step a double effort and the climb had taken longer than usual. At his side the gelding stood with its head hanging, nostrils flared red and eyes dull with fatigue. He patted the horse's neck allowing it a few more moments rest. Since leaving Etrives, he had ridden six good horses into the ground but, for once, his consideration was not only for his horse. He knew that arriving at the city gates on a blown and sweat-lathered horse would attract too much attention.
He soaked a cloth to wet the horse's mouth and then used it to wipe the sweat marks from its sides. Finished he used the cloth to wrap the hilt of his sword, hiding the Chamfort crest. When that was done, he checked the horse's legs and tack, moving mindlessly through routine tasks. He bent to check the horse's shoes, as he straightened his vision blurred and he staggered. The moment's weakness allowed a sudden rush of emotion. Thoughts of what had happened at Etrives hovered over him like carrion birds. Thinking of it would break him. He forced himself upright, closing his mind against the shadow of something unbearable. He turned back to face what must be done.
Two days and two nights hard riding had brought him to Fourges, if not ahead of the couriers, at least within hours of their arrival. He knew reports of St Andre's death, and the manner of it, would reach the King fast. As soon as they did writs would be issued, and he would be a named traitor and fugitive. As best he could work out, he did not think it possible that warrants for his arrest would have been sent out yet. But it was dangerous to assume too much.
The watch on the city gates was always well informed, and once issued the King's writ would reach them quickly. The guards were skilled at detecting all sorts of attempts at illicit entry into the city. The King was not the only person to monitor who entered his city, courtiers, merchants and others paid their own watchers and boys to run with messages. New could travel very fast within the city.
He stood staring down at Fourges. The south gate was still busy, with a straggle of carts and pedestrians awaiting entry. The day was drawing to a close, and the guards would be due a duty change and looking forward to their evening's pleasure. He hoped it would make them less vigilant. There had been no time to find a disguise. Unwashed and with several days stubble and wearing rough clothes, he hoped it would be enough. Patting the horse's neck, he swung into the saddle and started down the hill.
The city rose to meet him, a cluster of red roofs, packed shoulder to shoulder, interspersed with jutting spires and dissected by the river's sparkling trail. His gaze lingered on the King's palace with its towering walls and complex courts, then passed on to the harbor. Three score ships lay at close anchor with more awaiting the tide, boats plied among them.
The ships were the reason for risking the city. Thanks to Michel, he carried a small fortune in jewels. With luck, by morning he could be at sea and beyond Ferdinand's reach.
He shivered. It was partly exhaustion, but underneath was something much worse. Even though there was little left that could reach him through that smothering grief, the thought of falling into the King's hands chilled him. It was not for himself, he deserved to answer for what he had done, but Michel had convinced him it would give Ferdinand terrible power over his father. He had made two promises to Michel, the first, to protect his family, was easy enough to hold to, the second, bound to the first, would be harder to keep. He was beginning to realize just how hard. It was a promise that only his love for Michel could bring him to honor.
The gate was close now. He joined the straggling queue, behind a peddler with a rickety cart heaped with worked leather goods and smelly tanned hides. The man looked up, shading his eyes against the evening sun.
"Looks as though you have traveled a fair distance and fast, you've come from the south?"
Disconcerted, Edouard rubbed a hand across his chin, feeling the prickle of several days' stubble. He was ready for the guards, but he had not expected to be quizzed by a fellow traveler. "Uh, yes," he said glancing towards the gate. The guards were busy sorting out a wrangle between two women with a flock of belligerent geese.
"What's the news?"
"News?"
"From Etrives," the man said, looking at him as if he was some sort of idiot.
Edouard stared back at him, strangely calm. "I've come from Pousille."
"But you must have heard something," the man said. He waited a moment and getting no response continued. "I heard there was a great battle at Ralmadre, but no victory. William of Ettivar held his ground against the Marechal and will claim the honors. They say St Andre has retreated back to Etrives?"
"I wouldn't know." Edouard let the reins slide between his fingers, but the tired gelding showed no inclination to move, surreptitiously he urged it forward. The numb calm was slipping away, sweat prickled his sides and his heart was thudding. At the gate, the guards were shooing the women, and geese, away. He realized the man was speaking again. He looked back. "What?"
"Never mind." The man shrugged, annoyed, turning to his neighbor and muttering something about youngsters too taken up with their own affairs to take an interest the in the fate of Valderon's army. Both men turned to scowl at him.
He nudged the horse forward again, keeping his head down, glad of his filthy clothes, and that he had taken the time to wrap his sword hilt and find a scabbard of plain leather. Once drawn, the quality of the blade would be obvious, but that hardly mattered. If he had to draw it in Fourges, any hope of concealing his identity would be lost.
The gate was close now. Two gatehouses flanked the massive arch, both the heavy wooden gates were drawn back to allow access. He urged the gelding on. Two of the guards were inspecting a cart of apples, it seemed they knew the man and were ignoring his protests as they selected the ripest of his produce to sample. Beyond the gate the geese were honking, barely covering the women's shrill voices still raised in argument; two more guards got up slowly and went to investigate. Edouard nudged the gelding forward towards the remaining guards. He smiled raising his eyes at the chaos beyond the gate, "Which do you think it would be best to avoid, the women or the geese?" he asked.
The guard gave a sour grin. "Ah, friend, that's an easy one. It's the women you have to watch out for, every time." He glanced at Edouard's horse. "You've ridden hard?"
"I should've been back two days ago, but…" he shrugged. "You can be sure I'll be held to account for every hour."
"You best get on then." The guard grinned. "You've some apologizing to do, and you best buy something to ease her temper."
"Oh I've something that will see to that." As the guard leered, Edouard returned the smile and rode through the gate.
Beyond the gate the road widened into a small square, the argument over the geese was still raging, and travelers were giving it a wide berth, making the square near impassable. As the day drew to a close, the square was already jammed with those entering the city and those seeking to leave. On a tired horse, Edouard did not have the patience to make his way among them. Instead, he turned into one of the side streets. Set high above the city where the air was fresh, the area was popular with wealthy merchants and tradesmen. The houses were well built and clean, the roads less congested. Riding past shopkeeper's st
alls, he detoured to avoid lines of wet washing, knowing that if he kept making his way downhill he would eventually reach the river.
After a while, the hillside began to drop steeply and the streets narrowed. Overshadowed by crowding rooftops, the lanes twisted and turned between increasingly tattered buildings. The daylight was nearly gone, and it was dark in the gloomy streets. He rode cautiously, seeking the river and access to the old bridge and beyond it the main harbor. Rounding a corner, his tired horse slipped on the cobbles, its shod hooves striking ominously loud in the quiet. He was no longer among the safe, clean streets on the hills overlooking the city. Here among the alleys approaching the river, normally a teeming dangerous place, the silence worried him. His hand slipped to rest on his sword. In that moment, he wished regretfully for the busy hustle of the main road.
Bending in the saddle to avoid a low hanging gutter, he rounded a corner. Ahead the roadway was blocked by a group of men. On instinct he wheeled his horse away and followed the street back, taking the next turn. Balked by a dead end he headed back up hill; a shadow flitted among the alleys close by, and he heard the sound of running footsteps. He began to have a bad feeling. Men appeared in the street ahead. Avoiding them, he turned back until all ways were closed and his options reduced.
These were not the King's men, that much was obvious. He wondered if they were they robbers who had picked him as a mark by chance, a random stranger entering the city. Or had someone's spies seen him enter the city. He did not think it was chance. Something warned him to suspicion and action followed instinctively.
His horse was too spent to maneuver in the narrow spaces. Edouard grabbed his pack. He jumped clear by a narrow alley. Immediately the pounding of footsteps at his back told him the men were coming after him. The long alley became a trap. Testing one of the wooden gateways, he threw his shoulder against the rotten wood and broke through. Pushing the splintered gate shut, he stared around a small weed choked courtyard. From the alley he heard the crashing sounds of pursuit. He dived toward a low tunnel, bending to run towards the street at its end and skidding to a halt as running figures passed the entry.
Panting, Edouard eased forward. He reviewed the situation; he thought there were at least ten men chasing him, which seemed excessive for chance robbery, but in Fourges anything was possible. He tracked the time from when he had entered the city, trying to guess what he faced. There was one comforting thought; these were not the King's men. Slipping into the empty street he ran downhill, aware that he had no true idea now of where the quickest route to the river lay. Approaching a crossroads, he flattened against the wall and peered round. Downhill the way was clear, uphill men waited. Behind him footsteps echoed. Driven into the open he ran, while all around the pursuit harried him in one direction.
Pushed towards the river, he emerged onto its banks and looked for the old bridge and the harbor. Instead, he saw the King's bridge with its nine graceful arches and wide road. He realized he had been driven upstream. He skidded to a halt as the palace walls loomed. Spinning round he ducked back into the alley, even as three men emerged from the shadows. Left with no choice, Edouard drew his sword and went to meet them. Prepared to risk the cutthroats rather than draw the attention of the King's halberdiers.
The men saw him coming and slowed, drawing an assortment of weapons. Two of them held swords, difficult to maneuver in the close space of the alley. At first he could not see what the third man held, then he saw the flicker of movement and an axe spun through the air, hurtling towards his head. He used his blade to cut it from the air, an awkward and desperate stroke that drove him back, flatfooted and unbalanced.
The axe clattered against the wall and dropped to the cobbles. As it fell the other two men came forward fast, hoping to catch him unprepared. Edouard met the first rush with sword and dagger, a fierce clash of blades. He gave ground as the sound echoed along the alley. The lack of space meant his opponents did not have room to challenge him at the same time and the third man, who had drawn a sword, was holding station behind them.
He fought, but half his attention was listening for signs of the other men. They could not be far away, he guessed they were further downstream and would come up behind his attackers, but it was not something he dared to depend on. If they had somehow out flanked him he would be cut off. After the first attack, the engagement became wary, and he realized these men were too skilled to be simple cutthroats. It posed another question, but he didn't have time to worry about that now. He concentrated on holding them at bay whilst he looked for an escape route. Several strides behind him a cart was resting on its shafts close against the side of the alley, beyond he thought he saw a narrow tunnel. Judging his moment, Edouard ducked behind the cart and slipped into the passageway. Using his shoulder, he shoved the cart across the entrance and sprinted along the dark tunnel.
It ended in a small courtyard, with barrels stacked against high walls. Without breaking stride, he leaped up onto the barrels. Unbalanced they tumbled and fell behind him, but he had reached the top of the wall and had enough momentum to vault over. It was a long drop. He landed well and found himself in a smaller courtyard, mostly taken up by a wooden lean-to. The courtyard was dark and smelly. A quick glance around showed no obvious way out. Hearing noise beyond the wall, he stepped silently back into the shadows.
The first man over the wall landed badly and died before he could recover. Edouard pulled his blade free but had no time to get out of the way as the next man came down. The collision knocked them both to the ground. Rolling away, he swung the blade wildly and felt it connect. For a moment he did not know whether he had struck the dead man or his new attacker, then an abrupt scream told him he had been lucky.
As he sprang into a crouch, he saw the final man silhouetted atop the wall. He was half turned his mouth open to shout warning. His call would draw the other men to them. Possessed by a lethal calm, Edouard reversed his dagger and threw. The man fell back over the wall, landing with a heavy thud. There was a rattle of barrels and then silence.
Alone in the dark yard with two dead men, Edouard stood listening. Time passed and there was no sound to break the silence. It seemed the hunters had lost his trail, for now. He took a step back, coming up hard against the wall. The rush of strength faded suddenly and, as his sword hung loose in his hand, he began to shiver. He stood for a while like this until the yowl of alley cats stirred him. Cleaning his sword, he sheathed it and began to look for a way out of the courtyard. He did not want to return the way he had come.
The shack seemed empty, and he guessed it was some sort of workshop. He managed to climb onto its roof and over the next wall, dropping into a larger yard. Unwilling to risk the locked gate at its end, he climbed again eventually working his way beyond the alley and into yards and gardens that had walls backing on to a different street. He found an unlocked gate and eased it open; outside the street was dark and empty.
He set off following alleys and lanes, staying away from the river, working his way downstream until he judged he was near to the old bridge. Then he found his way to the mouth of an alley close to the riverbank. The old bridge was close by. Crowded with houses, its narrow road was busy with pedestrians, horses and carts. Below on the river, boats with lamps were taking passengers upstream. He knew that on the other side of the bridge the boats would be taking fares downstream. It was near high tide and no one would risk shooting the rapids between the stanchions of the bridge with the river at full flow.
He watched the tide of people crossing the bridge. He saw no watchers and no sign of the men who had attacked him, but still he hesitated, sensing that something was not right. In the alley behind him a cat hissed and streaked up a wall, a flicker of white and gray in the darkness. The sound unnerved him and he turned to scan the alley. It was deserted and silent, as he turned back, from the corner of his eye he saw the shadows shift. Edouard shivered; a memory tugged at his attention. He turned as he heard the first hiss of sound.
He saw
the shadows gather, but it was too late. The chant seethed around him, settling like a blanket, smothering his will and fogging his thoughts. It took all his strength to reach for the medallion hanging at his neck, the talisman he had taken from the dead monk. The feel of it in his hand gave him strength. Raising it high, he began to mutter the words he had heard the monk use and had since learned by rote. He had no understanding of their meaning, the words were ancient, a language lost to all but the adepts of Tarsien. The words held the darkness back.
The chant faltered. For a moment, Edouard felt its power ebb. He took one step, towards the riverbank, instinct driving him to escape the alley and its darkness. But the shadow moved, flowing round him to block his path. The chant rose again. The force of it sent him staggering back until he slammed against the slime covered wall. The impact took his breath and broke his concentration; he lost the flow of ancient words. The shadow creature surged forward. Enveloped in darkness more intense than any shadow, Edouard felt its malevolence, a tangible force beating against his will.
He tried to recall the monk's words, but his mind was blank. The shadow was pressing closer. Edouard felt the ice of its touch. The wall was at his back, he thrust away from it, obeying a mindless urge to escape. His foot slipped in the muck of the alley and he fell. He landed hard on the cobbles. For a moment, he saw beyond the shadow. He was close to the riverbank, and he could hear the slap of water and the calls of the river men plying for trade. He rolled desperately across the cobbles, trying to fling himself beyond the shadow's reach. The creature moved fast.
Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3) Page 66
