Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3)

by Richard Crawford

  Only the best warriors had been chosen as members of the Athari, and they guarded Micia day and night. The Athari were separate from the palace guard and fiercely loyal to the Queen. She had chosen men who had served her father to command the Athari: men who had protected her through the slaughter that followed her father's death. Not all of them had survived. She did not forget that. They were the only ones she trusted as she trusted him. As he hoped she trusted him.

  He rose to pour wine for her. He had almost achieved what he desired and decided it was best not to press. He would leave the subject of de Chamfort for the moment. He handed her a glass and turned aside to get the drawings of the planned amphitheater.

  "And if we send him back, will he receive a fair trial?"

  He was surprised by the question, not even sure if it was a question or challenge; almost certain she had no true concern for the answer. About to answer casually, he paused. It was not something he could know. She was waiting. Sometimes she tested him. Or perhaps it was a test for them both. To gain time he sorted and smoothed the papers, creating order.

  "Is it our business?" he asked at last.

  "Perhaps not, particularly if he is guilty, as you say."

  The question unsettled him. He supposed he had said that. It shamed him to make such a casual judgment on a man's life. "Does whether we have proof of his guilt matter? If the situation were reversed?" He knew as he spoke that it was a misstep. It called to mind bitter memories.

  She shook her head sharply, sending golden hair tumbling across her shoulders. It was an almost childish gesture, and it gave Shamet pause. It was rare that she was uncertain. "If Ferdinand returned a close relative who had betrayed me..." Micia did not finish.

  In Allesarion a traitor of royal blood died in the arena. A death you would not give a vicious dog. He had watched two of her uncles suffer that fate. The memories still gave him nightmares. Even the worst murderers received a quicker death, were spared such torment. He wondered if Micia had nightmares.

  "We cannot judge his guilt or innocence. That is a task for his King and peers," he said. It sounded well enough, and Micia did not question him further. But he had a feeling there was something more, something she was not telling him.

  ###

  A few days after his meeting with Lord Shamet, Edouard was still smarting from the encounter. The Chancellor had made him feel a fool. In truth, he had behaved like a fool. To think, and worse to suggest, that he wished to return to Valderon to face Ferdinand's justice.

  He hated these games, but he must play them, if not for his own sake then for his family. It would be so much easier to face a foe with a sword in hand. But he had done that, and it had not worked out so well. He could hear his brother's voice in his head telling him his rashness had caused Michel's death. Even if Charles spared him that truth, he would call him a naïve fool.

  Surprisingly, he sometimes wished Charles were here, silky tongued and courtly. He could do with his brother's counsel. However hard he tried he could not form a plan, nor prepare smooth, dissembling words for Shamet's next visit. He knew the Chancellor would return with more questions. Questions he must answer, and the truth would not serve. It was an impossible mess, and Micia's court was no haven. Frustrated, Edouard ran and sparred.

  It was mid-morning, and hot, as he made his second circuit of the palace gardens. The physical discomfort helped to empty his mind of all but the effort of breathing, the burn of his leg muscles as he ran uphill. In this part of the garden, ancient trees towered above the paths, soft leaved vines climbed the trunks. Small creatures scurried into the branches as he approached, and birds flitted in the highest branches. It was some distance from the palace and this part of the garden was always empty.

  Used to this solitude, he was unprepared to round a bend and find the path blocked by a girl and her attendants. Forced to a halt, he stumbled as tired muscles failed to respond. He felt a flash of annoyance to be disturbed here. He looked again at the girl and instinct warned him to take care.

  The party consisted of more than ten people. The girl he had noticed first. Another glance told him two of the other girls were her companions; then there were slaves and eight guards. The first girl had long golden hair and a regal manner. She stood in the center of the path, blocking his way. For a moment, he wondered if this was Micia. But the girl was too young. Edouard guessed she was his age or a few years older.

  He had stopped in the center of the path, facing her, struggling to regain his breath and some control over tired legs. The girl was staring at him. He had a well-developed instinct for danger and, however unlikely, it filled him now. He barely stopped himself reaching for a sword he did not have. The urge was so strong his fist closed as if around a sword hilt.

  The guards were well armed, and there seemed a large number for a walk in the palace garden, surely the safest of places. Edouard might be naïve to the games played at Micia's court, but he understood when a threat was being made. This was not a casual encounter. He was being warned or challenged. The girl stood at the head of the men. She wore a dagger. Her fingers caressed the jeweled hilt. The look in her eyes told him she wanted to draw it and stab him; he could see her lust for blood.

  A sudden insight told him such things had happened in Allesarion. Scores were settled like this. He had been warned about Micia's court, but not until this moment had he truly understood that warning. The girl was still staring. If looks could kill, she would not need the dagger. He wondered how he could have so annoyed a girl he had never met.

  It went against his nature to back down from a challenge, but Edouard stepped aside, ceding the path and the victory to her. He bowed, a full court bow, and held it waiting for her to pass. He heard the swish of her skirts as she moved. She drew level with him and came to a halt.

  Edouard's neck prickled. His ears strained for the sound of the dagger leaving its sheathe. He held the bow, though he felt her gaze like a lash. One of the girls whispered a comment, too low for him to hear. Then someone giggled softly. He did not think it was the golden haired girl. The urge to look up, to meet the challenge, was strong. Instinct warned him to caution, told him this moment was as dangerous as a battlefield encounter.

  The group moved on.

  Edouard straightened and turned to watch them. Several of the guards glanced back, hands on sword hilts, as if looking for an excuse. This was a game Edouard understood. What he did not know was who this golden haired girl was, or why she hated him so much.

  Chapter 80

  Mariette did not enjoy the journey to Chamfort. Roslaire's words of warning stayed with her. Of course, she knew Ferdinand had sent his knights to Chamfort to search for Edouard. She knew they would not find him, but she was concerned about how they would treat the Prince and his family. With every mile she traveled that concern grew.

  Entering the town of Chamfort she saw knights and soldiers in the King's livery. More were guarding the bridge that crossed from the town to the chateau, and their obvious controlling presence suggested that her fears were well founded. After a brief inspection, the knights guarding the bridge allowed her to pass. She knew they would report her visit to the King. That did not concern her. By now, Diane would have handed the Compact's evidence to Ferdinand.

  On first view, the chateau rested serene among its immaculate gardens. Perhaps it was too quiet. She was relieved to see that Rupert's standard still flew above the towers. When they reached the stables her unease grew. There were no Chamfort knights on the tiltyard or practice grounds. This was unheard of.

  Entering the chateau, she found more of the King's men. The sight of Ferdinand's colors at Chamfort shocked Mariette. She had not expected this sort of presence, so obvious and intrusive. The strange silence dragged at her nerves, was Rupert a prisoner in his own home? And what of the Chamfort knights, had there been a fight, bloodshed.

  She had sent word to say she was coming and had heard nothing in return. No offer of hospitality; now that omission did not
seem so strange. Even if he was allowed to, Rupert would not be inclined to welcome visitors at a time like this. The King's men did not prevent her entering the chateau. Servants moved quietly about their business, everything was in its usual good order. But Rupert did not come down to greet her.

  Instead, a young man came to lead her upstairs. He was dressed for court, but she recognized him as one of the King's knights. He offered the barest courtesy, and glancing at his grim profile she had a moment's anxiety, wondering if Rupert was unwell or injured. The young knight brought her to Rupert's study. As the prospect of facing the Prince drew closer she wondered again, how could you tell a father such news about his son.

  It came to her that Rupert must already know much of what had happened and of the charges made against Edouard. Had he learned this as the King's knights stormed his home? She waited as the knight knocked and announced her. It was done with respect, but she felt intense discomfort and regret to be witness to Rupert's humiliation. She was glad when the door closed behind her and they were alone.

  The Prince was sitting at his desk working on some papers. She saw there were more strands of gray among his dark hair. Seeing him working, a sight so familiar, she could almost pretend nothing had happened. Then he looked up and the familiar welcome was missing, replaced by a cold smile and wary politeness.

  "Mariette," he said, rising and leading her to a seat. "You take a great risk coming here." For a moment, she did not understand. Was he threatening her? But that was not Rupert's style. Then she saw his face, saw no sign of concern, and realized he was saying that he did not trust her. He thought she was acting for Ferdinand and that she took no risk at all. It meant he knew at least some of what she had done.

  "I owed you an explanation," she said. "And you should know the truth." She wondered if it was too late for that, certain that he had already risked too much to protect his son. "Where are the Chamfort knights?" she asked.

  He settled behind the desk, fingers laced in front of his face. "The knights and my younger sons have not yet returned from Etrives." The hint of a smile touched his mouth, but did not reach his eyes. "I would not ask my knights to take arms against their King."

  He was a clever man, clever enough to have survived his brother's jealousy and made a life for himself. It was all at risk now. He must be told how that had happened. But first she had news he must be anxious to hear. "I believe Edouard is safe, for now at least. He was injured, but he escaped Fourges and took ship for Allesarion."

  He watched her, sitting so still she could see no sign he was breathing. No hint of expression touched his face as he heard the news. The wind rattled the windowpane. A log shifted and settled in the fireplace. At last he spoke. "Does Ferdinand know?" He was not surprised. She could not tell if he was relieved.

  "I don't know," she said. "He will hear from Allesarion," she added, in case he thought she was threatening to take the secret to the King.

  "Of course, Micia will be keen to twist the knife. It is the perfect chance for revenge."

  Revenge, at the mention of it a flush of heat prickled her skin. She knew he saw it.

  "And your part in this, Mariette, will you explain it to me?"

  "I had no part in his escape."

  He nodded once. "I understand you are no friend to my son." The slightest pause, the knuckles of his laced fingers were white, as if courtesy was an effort. "Why are you here, Mariette?"

  "I owe you an explanation and apology, not for what I have done but for the way it was done. And I think you need to hear the truth about Edouard." It was hard to speak facing that cold blue stare. She had expected him to be ill informed, that she could offer warning and help. Now she saw how foolish that had been. He had negotiated the stormy waters of his brother's dislike for years; he knew how to defend his own.

  "I do not want your apology. I thought I had your loyalty and friendship, but it seems I was wrong." He bit off further words and let a silence grow. When he spoke again it was measured and without inflexion. "I will not speak about what place my son thought he held in your affections, or what you led him to believe. Or of the ways you seemingly betrayed him; that is not my business." He glanced away for a moment. "I do not need you to tell me Edouard has made mistakes." There was a hint of anger in his voice now, despite the white knuckles and all his efforts to maintain his legendary control.

  Though he spoke of Edouard, she knew she had hurt him deeply. But that did not change anything. However hard it was he must hear the truth. "Mistakes? You cannot know what he has done and dismiss his crimes so simply."

  "Tell me what he has done, Mariette, if it matters so much to you now."

  The stress on the last word made her flush again. She rose, shocked by his anger, but then her own anger returned. "He rode with the shadow knights, the men that murdered Hugo." All her planned words were lost as emotion claimed her. "He slaughtered innocents, for what purpose I do not know. He served St Andre, killing for him, taking part in some vile treason. I could tell many tales of the things he has done–"

  She saw his face and could not go on. Rupert was her friend; she could not tell him such things of his son. How could it not seem that she was blaming him for what Edouard had done, what he had become?

  "You became involved in this because of Hugo?" he asked.

  She nodded, looking down at her hands. "After his death I learned of other deaths, a pattern of evil spreading across the land. I joined a compact against this evil. When Edouard came under suspicion, I could not believe it of your son. I insisted I would investigate." She stopped short of telling him it was done to protect him, to protect Chamfort. She had no right now to seek his gratitude.

  He had not moved but his gaze searched hers. At last he took a breath. "You truly believe Edouard is capable of all the charges Ferdinand lays against him?"

  "We have proof. I wish it could be denied."

  He pushed his chair back and rose, leaving the bastion of the desk as though some truce had been reached. Perhaps he had seen her grief and pain were genuine. First, he went to pour brandy. He brought it to her and then took a chair beside her. He spoke softly, urgently. "I do not claim he is guiltless, but Edouard served St Andre that was his only crime. He was young and naïve, desperate for glory. He did not think or question the orders he was given until it was too late. That was his mistake. It is a mistake for which he has paid a high price and still pays. I do not condone what he has done. But you must understand, Mariette, it was done in ignorance. It is not an excuse, but I cannot believe you truly think him capable of being a willing part of such evil."

  "You heard this from Edouard?" she asked.

  "No. I have not seen him. He came to Chamfort in secret. Charles has spoken to him." He spread his hands, a helpless gesture. "It seems St Andre made threats against me, and against other members of the family. By this means he convinced Edouard to continue to serve him.

  "Edouard thought he could protect Chamfort and free himself from St Andre; he kept it all to himself until it was too late. Of course he was wrong, foolish to think he could deal with this alone." He stood up and paced to the window. "I know what he has done, Mariette, and I do not condone it; if I had known, I would have risked Chamfort before I allowed him to follow such a course." He came to her. "I understand your anger. But it was St Andre, the men he served, the men who murdered Hugo, they are behind this evil. Edouard was never a willing part of their plans." He finished and she could see he was waiting for her to agree.

  She hesitated. It was not through doubt. He was wrong about Edouard. But for a moment she wondered what purpose it would serve to convince him his son had acted with knowledge, and complicity.

  "There is something more?" he asked. When she nodded he said, "Tell me, Mariette."

  "You must understand that whatever I did, however I betrayed him, I did not want to believe Edouard was part of the shadow evil. This was not about revenge." It was hard to offer her private emotions as proof. "I cared for him, Rupert." She
saw his face and spoke quickly. "I am not looking for pity. But there is something you must know and it changes everything."

  "Tell me."

  "In one of the villages destroyed on St Andre's orders, there was a daughter of the mysteries. She was injured but the villagers helped her escape to the woods. One of the raiders followed and murdered her, brutally. There were witnesses. My captain has questioned them." She did not want to say the words, but he was waiting. "The witnesses gave a description of the man who murdered the girl, down to the crest on his sword. It was Edouard. There can be no doubt."

  He stood up and moved away from her. "You truly believe this, Mariette?"

  "There are witnesses," she said.

  He shook his head, a wordless denial.

  Chapter 81

  Charles heard the key turn in the lock and felt a moment's apprehension. This shocked him. He was the King's prisoner, but he had committed no crime. That knowledge should give him some security. It did not. He had learned through the long days of his captivity how fragile a protection innocence could be. And he was truly innocent. It made him afraid for Edouard, who if innocent in intent was guilty by action. Charles had also learned that rank and privilege meant little; you were still at the mercy of those more powerful. At Chamfort this was something you could forget, though he doubted this was a mistake his father had ever made.

  He did not expect the King to harm him, but he understood now how powerless he was, subject to Ferdinand's whim and temper. The long days dragged. Solitude and inactivity wore on him. He had too much time to worry about his father. With Edouard accused of murder and treason and himself locked in the King's dungeons, the Prince was being backed into a corner. He had confidence in his father's diplomacy, but again the power lay with Ferdinand. The King seemed determined to force his brother to move against him. It was hard to know how far Ferdinand would go in this brutal test of loyalty.