It was typical of Edouard: rash, impetuous and convinced all problems could be sorted through martial skill and strength of arms. Charles had been angry, but now he was too worried for his brother's safety to blame him for being so naive. He was not sure that his father felt the same. In truth, there was no excuse, Edouard had been reckless and unbelievably foolish.
Charles studied his father. The Prince had turned back to his papers. It was almost a dismissal. For weeks, they had been dancing around the heart of their troubles. Charles was certain there was something his father was not telling him. They could not afford secrets.
"We're chasing shadows," Charles said, without irony. "I should go to court."
"I need you here."
He had received the same answer many times. "Gerald or Antonio would make a better job of this search. The two of them would cover twice as much ground. You could keep Daniel out of it, stop him learning anything more."
His father looked up, glared at him, and shook his head.
Charles was tired and out of patience. "They will have to know what Edouard is embroiled in," he said. It was an old argument. Gerald and Antonio were his father's master of horse and master at arms; they were also his oldest friends. Only Michel was closer to him. "Who do you think you are protecting? Edouard's reputation is beyond such help." It was a risk, goading his father, but something had to be done. He could not stay buried at Chamfort achieving nothing useful.
Prince Rupert slammed a fist against the desk. Glass rattled, and something clattered to the floor. "I'm not fool enough to waste my time protecting Edouard's reputation. All I seek is proof enough to save him from a traitor's death. Is it too much to ask for your help?"
Charles stared at his father, shocked by the outburst.
The Prince was silent for a moment. "Thanks to your brother it is doubtful there is anyone I can be sure of protecting."
The fury had left his father's voice, but Charles had to press. There was a great deal at stake. "Tell Antonio and Gerald before some rumor reaches Chamfort." He made it a warning. "They can organize the searches and deal with Daniel. They have a far better understanding of what sort of base and supplies a group of knights would require. The information our scouts have gathered will make more sense to them than it does to me."
"No, I need you here," said Rupert.
"And when Michel returns, will you tell him?"
Rupert closed his eyes. He nodded once. "I will, and it will break his heart."
Charles was stunned by the implication in his father's words. "He would never believe Edouard is a traitor, nor would Antonio and Gerald." He could not look at his father's face, afraid he would not find the same certainty. "A reckless, arrogant young fool, maybe. But not a traitor?"
"Of course not, not intentionally," Prince Rupert spoke softly. "But he has carried out acts that are..." He waved the thought away, but the word unforgivable hung unspoken in the silence.
Charles looked at his father. "We will stand by Edouard?"
"Your brother chose his path, despite every warning." Rupert settled back in his chair, his face hidden by shadow. "I will not denounce him, but I don't know how much I can do to help him now. When Ferdinand learns of the treason done in his name, and he will learn of it, Edouard will be the focus of his rage. St Andre will make sure no blame accrues to him." Neither of them doubted this assumption. "The King's wrath will fall on Edouard. I will do everything I can to protect him and prove his innocence, but there are others I must think of. I cannot let the innocent suffer for your brother's mistakes."
Charles understood the dilemma, maybe it was guilt that made him question. "He might be dead," he said. His father's bleak stare silenced him. He waited for something more, when it did not come he made his choice.
"I'm going to Fourges, to court. That woman de Montmercy is part of this Compact. Perhaps she has answers." He had long been suspicious of Mariette de Montmercy and her motives.
"Go if you must." His father's look and tone were bleak. "But I'm afraid you will get no answers, or none you'll want to hear."
Chapter 71
The clash of steel echoed through the garden, urgent and unforgiving. It followed Remy as he raced headlong into the house. He hurried through the silent rooms, searching desperately for help. No one, not even a servant, answered his calls. He came to a halt, panting, beneath the tiered shelves of Edgar de Michelac's library. Dust motes spun lazily in the sunlight. The books towered over him. Centuries of knowledge offered no help.
Remy thought he must be cursed to be always in the wrong place at the wrong time. And cursed with a conscience too, if one of them died, somehow it would be his fault. Though he could not explain how, Remy was sure that he had caused this to happen. He hurried from the library towards the stairs. The people he would most trust to stop what was happening were far out of reach. The Duchess had gone to court. Mathieu was on his way to Debrauche. The Baroness Diane was out somewhere. He prayed she would return soon. He was sure Jaime's mother could stop this; she could probably stop a cavalry charge. Remy was a little afraid of the Baroness.
But she was not here. That left Edgar who was nowhere to be found. Remy did not think their mild mannered host would be much help anyway. He sat down on the stairs, put his head in his hands, and fought the urge to cry. Why did these things always happen to him?
"Remy." The voice from above startled him. He had forgotten Brother Liam. Since returning from his travels, the young monk spent most of his time in his rooms studying the ancient volumes he had brought back from Tarsien. He was seen so rarely it was easy to forget he had returned.
Square and plain, Liam wore a threadbare habit and sandals. Calm as an oak tree, his presence offered Remy a glimmer of hope. Liam stomped down the stairs and laid a hand on Remy's shoulder. "What's the matter?"
Remy leaped up and caught his arm. He was not sure how Liam could help, but he was better than no one. "We have to stop them," he said, dragging Liam with him.
The monk resisted for a moment; then as they neared the doors to the garden, the sound of swordplay was unmistakable.
"Saints of mercy, are we under attack? Is it the shadow knights? Let me grab my staff."
"No," said Remy, impatient. "It's Jaime and Roslaire. We have to stop them before something terrible happens." He kept going, trusting Liam would follow. The garden was long and divided by hedges into separate areas planted in different styles. Remy ran through a neatly tended rose garden, then a graveled court with tiny hedges and a fountain at the center.
At the far end, there was a dusty yard that led to the stables. Here Jaime and Roslaire dueled. Remy skidded to a halt beneath the archway formed by an ancient yew hedge.
Close to, the clash of steel made him wince. There was no mistaking its deadly intent. The engagement ended, and the combatants broke apart for a moment. Both were stripped to shirt and breeches and breathing hard. A moment's pause and Jaime attacked. The scuffle of sliding feet raised a cloud of dust. Remy watched Jaime's blade cut towards Roslaire's chest. Roslaire sprang back, and the blade sliced his shirt a hairsbreadth from causing injury.
There was no doubting it, blood would be shed before this was done. Remy looked round as Brother Liam arrived at his side. The monk carried a wooden staff balanced lightly in one hand. After one glance at the combat, he put his hand on Remy's arm. "Stay back. No one will get between them now, Remy."
"What can we do?"
"Pray," said Liam shortly. "What started it?"
"Jaime came back from the docks in a rage and drew his sword on Roslaire."
"Did he have a reason?"
Remy shrugged. "I suppose so." He had been sitting in a window seat with a book, half asleep in the sun. The clash of steel had woken him. He had not heard what happened between the two men, but he knew Jaime had been to the docks on a mission to discover how Edouard de Chamfort had escaped Fourges, what ship he had taken, and where it was headed. "What can we do?"
Across the yard, Ja
ime's blade missed Roslaire's arm by an inch and hacked a lump of yew from the hedge. Roslaire parried the next blow neatly. He was good, Remy thought, but not as skilled as Jaime. And yet, to Remy's eye it seemed that despite all provocation, Roslaire de Lyon was not yet trying to harm or maim his opponent. Unlike Jaime who had the devil's temper. "What can we do!"
Brother Liam watched the fight through narrowed eyes. His staff still held loosely in one hand. "Leave them to it. There's nothing either of us can do."
"But Jaime will gut him." He had cause to know Jaime's temper.
"Perhaps not," said Liam.
His confidence seemed ill placed as Roslaire barely managed to block a vicious cut to his thigh, grunting as he crashed back against the stable wall. His next parry was slow, leaving him trapped between wall and hedge. Jaime's blade hammered down.
Remy's heart climbed into his throat. He gave a strangled cry and started forward, though he could not hope to do anything. Then he stood with his mouth hanging open as somehow Roslaire blocked. With a move Remy could not follow, Roslaire used his elbow and knee to smash Jaime backward.
Jaime landed hard in the dirt. Roslaire stepped away from the wall and stood waiting, sword raised, making no attempt to attack. Remy might have misjudged the fight and the corsair, but he knew well enough that humiliating Jaime would only lead to trouble.
With a growl, Jaime scrambled from the ground. Blade raised he stalked Roslaire. The corsair backed away. "Might we discuss this?" he asked. His tone was more mocking than conciliatory.
"You helped a traitor escape. In my book that makes you a traitor to the King and Compact."
"You are hasty in your judgment," said Roslaire, blocking a new attack.
Remy turned anxiously as a new presence replaced Brother Liam at his shoulder. A woman spoke.
"Jai put up your blade." Diane de Baccasar's voice had the ring of command few would deny. Her son did not obey instantly, and she hissed at him, "Are you deaf? Enough, I said."
Jaime retreated a step but did not sheathe his blade. "This is not done," he said, glaring at Roslaire.
"Be quiet!" Diane crossed the yard like a warhorse in full flight. Her son stood his ground. For an awful moment, Remy thought she would slap him. "Put up your blade and use your wits for once will you? Hugo taught you better than this."
Jaime flushed. He retreated a few more steps, but still held his sword ready. Diane turned to Roslaire. "Well did you help de Chamfort, and if so why?" She used the same tone she had used to her son.
Roslaire rested his sword on the ground, cool, arrogant and apparently unruffled. After a moment he laughed. It was an extravagant sound, wild as his golden curls. But his gray eyes were cold. "He came to me and I found him a ship."
"I told you. He's a traitor!" Jaime started forward. His mother's glare halted him.
Roslaire had not moved, ignoring Jaime completely. His gaze remained fixed on the Baroness.
"Your reason?" she asked. Her tone said it had better be a good one.
Roslaire raked golden curls back, a gesture of impatience. His eyes were guarded now, and for a moment, it seemed he would not answer her. He shook his head. "He is not the enemy you seek."
"And how would you know this?"
"It is obvious enough. He's been used."
"So you acted to protect him out of the goodness of your heart?" As the silence lengthened, the Baroness stared the corsair down.
Another tense moment passed; Remy fidgeted and glanced to Brother Liam.
"No." Roslaire looked towards Jaime. "I won't be questioned over drawn steel."
Diane spoke without looking at her son. "Put up your blade, now." Her voice held a crack of command as fearsome as any Remy had heard even during his time as a squire at Chamfort. There was no denying that voice. Jaime obeyed reluctantly. Remy breathed a sigh of relief as Roslaire also sheathed his blade. In the silence that followed, the Baroness launched her own attack.
"You have made a great investment in Valderon, Monsieur de Lyon. You have supplied Ferdinand with ships for his war with Ettivar. The defeat at Ralmadre was a setback, but one you will weather." The Baroness smiled. "No doubt you have means to recoup some of your losses." She studied him for a moment. "You do not want to risk Ferdinand clashing with his brother. If civil war destroys Valderon and Ferdinand, there is a chance you will lose your patron, and you will risk a vast fortune."
Roslaire nodded, accepting her words. "I did not claim I helped him for pity or kindness." He seemed at ease, holding Diane's gaze without flinching. "Or even out of a sense of justice." The words were spoken without emotion, but the clipped perfection of his voice, all trace of a foreign lilt gone, betrayed him. "By chance he came to me soon after I heard the news of St Andre's death. I had always suspected that de Chamfort had been used, this made it almost certain. A boy fleeing for his life was no threat to the King." He paused. "The danger was what would happen if the King took him."
"You acted to protect Ferdinand." Jaime's voice was heavy with sarcasm.
"There is more." Roslaire did not spare Jaime a glance. His attention remained on the Baroness. "The boy was hurt. An unnatural wound. I would guess he tangled with the shadow creature. Another indication that he is not on the side of our enemy."
"Why is this important?" Diane asked.
Roslaire paused for a moment. "The wound will kill him unless treated by someone with knowledge of such things." In the silence that followed his words, he glanced to Brother Liam. "The monk will tell you there is no one in Valderon now with such expertise."
It took a moment then Brother Liam nodded. "It is true. Once Tarsien had the skill, but it has been lost. I have had the old manuscripts copied. I am studying them, trying to learn."
Diane turned back to Roslaire. "So you sent him to Allesarion. Will he survive the journey?"
Roslaire shrugged. "Perhaps. He wanted to go there. Micia's magisters may have the expertise to heal him."
"Why not hand him over to the King?" Jaime moved a step closer, his voice a mix of interest and surly distrust.
"Alive in the King's hands he is a possible catalyst for civil unrest. Injured and dying in the King's dungeons, that strife and unrest would become certain. His father would be driven to act." Roslaire glanced to Jaime. "And, I will say again, I do not believe he is in league with our enemy."
"He could have answered questions," said Jaime.
"Perhaps. But at the cost of his life, and then what would you do? Hand him to the King, or back to his father for burial? There are larger matters here than your lust for revenge." Roslaire was impatient again. "Think of the consequences. The possibility that you might be doing your enemy's work." He looked to Diane. "And if he survives he can still answer questions in Allesarion."
"If he survives he will have other problems." Diane was frowning as she weighed his argument. "It is with good reason they call Micia the scorpion queen. She would not be my choice for a place of refuge; you think her feud with Ferdinand will play in de Chamfort's favor?"
Roslaire shrugged. "He had few options. Micia will be pleased to have a chance to spite Ferdinand. The magisters of Allesarion may have the knowledge to cure him. If they do not, he will have little chance to be concerned for the future."
"How do you know he was wounded by the shadow creature?" Diane asked.
"I have seen wounds caused by sorcery. Not in Valderon, but in the lands across the sea. I have seen wounds that are not what they seem, that do not heal naturally. It is not a fancy; I have seen men die from such wounds."
Diane nodded once. "What would you have us do? We have gathered evidence, would you have it all go to waste?"
It was like a sparring match. Remy could not tell if Diane had accepted Roslaire's explanation. Watching them, he felt young and foolish, aware how little he understood of the games played here.
Roslaire shrugged. "It is not for me to advise you. As you have pointed out, I have an investment in Ferdinand and Valderon. I acted to protect i
t." He paused. "Give your evidence to the King if you wish. You will have fulfilled your duty."
Diane was watching him. "You don't think de Chamfort will survive."
Jaime exclaimed, and she silenced him with an impatient gesture.
Roslaire de Lyon shrugged. "It would not be the worst outcome."
Diane made no answer.
"How can you say that?" The words escaped before Remy could think.
Silence, as neither Diane nor Roslaire answered him. Remy saw the look that passed between them and shivered. A feeling had been growing, a sort of panic. "If you think him innocent we should not turn the evidence over to the King…"
"He is hardly innocent," said Diane. "The Compact agreed to let the King's justice take its course." She looked to Roslaire. "Monsieur de Lyon has other priorities, and perhaps he was right to let de Chamfort escape Fourges." She turned to Remy. "But a great many people have suffered and died, the King will have our evidence; to withhold it would be wrong. Ferdinand must be warned. He must be made aware of the shadow knights and the creature they serve." She was silent for a moment. Then she looked to Roslaire. "I am going to hand the Compact's evidence to the King."
Roslaire de Lyon nodded once. He expressed neither approval nor dismay.
Remy wanted to say something, but he could not argue with her. This was wrong. He stood helplessly until Brother Liam laid a hand on his shoulder.
"Come, Remy."
They walked together back through the gardens.
"You have done your duty, Remy."
"But what if I was mistaken?" Time and again he had tried to recall what he had seen in the crypt at Chamfort. The scene came to him vividly in nightmares; in the light of day it was hard to remember exactly what had happened. He had been so afraid.
"Yours was not the only evidence." Brother Liam said softly.
Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3) Page 71
