So when the key turned, just for a moment, Charles was afraid. The door swung open. Prince Arnaud stepped into the cell.
"Charles, come with me."
It took him a moment to adjust, to comprehend Arnaud's words.
The Prince was alone. He smiled. "You're free to leave."
"Truly, is it over?"
Arnaud's smile faded. He hesitated for a moment. "Your captivity is over," he said.
Charles rose quickly and went to the Prince's side. "What's wrong?"
A shake of the head indicated Arnaud would not say more here. They left the dungeons and climbed the long steps to emerge into the courtyard. Together they walked through the palace grounds. Charles might have chosen to keep a low profile, but Arnaud took a route that brought them to the heart of the palace. Nobles and courtiers bowed, and greeted Charles as if he had just arrived from Chamfort. He fixed a haughty smile and held it until his face ached. After an urge to punch the first few well-wishers, he managed to exchange civil words and greetings.
"You're good at this," Arnaud said when they were alone for a moment.
Charles did not answer. He glanced sideways, not sure how to take this remark. The Prince did not know the turmoil he was feeling and perhaps that was a good thing. He was aware of the bond between Arnaud and Edouard, and that the Prince knew he had often been at odds with his brother. At odds. That was putting it mildly. Though Arnaud supported him, he was not sure if the Prince knew of his own determination to help Edouard.
Before he could work out how to respond, Arnaud continued. "I meant you should be more at court."
He nodded, reassured. "I have thought the same." He chose his words carefully. "Father is busy at Chamfort."
Another group approached them with Duke Roch de Isdorielle at their head. Charles did not know him well, but he was a dangerous and powerful man.
The Duke bowed to Arnaud and then turned to Charles. "It is a relief to see you in good health."
The Duke was the first person to allude to his recent captivity, however indirectly. Charles was aware of Arnaud, tense at his side, but his confidence had returned and a need to assert himself.
"Roch." He bowed easily to the Duke, though they were of a rank. "I'm touched by your concern. Next time you must visit."
The Duke laughed. "Indeed, let us hope there will not be a next time." His words were laced with false bonhomie. "Do not worry. We understand you are innocent, caught in the vortex of your brother's treason."
Charles felt his skin flush. Elation at his freedom had led him to overplay against a very powerful man. At court starting battles you could not win was a dangerous and foolish mistake.
"No one has been convicted of treason," said Arnaud, soft as ice. "Unless you know more than I, Roch?" The Prince held the Duke's gaze, after a long moment, Roch de Isdorielle gave way.
"No, my prince. Forgive me if I have spoken out of turn. Your father," He paused, delicately, letting the gathered courtiers fill in his thought: it was no secret, the King was convinced of Edouard's treason.
"My father seeks truth and justice," said Arnaud, answering what was not spoken.
"And revenge for the defeat and losses at Ralmadre," said Roch. The men around him murmured agreement.
The Duke had been walking with a small group and in the few moments they had been speaking it had grown. Charles heard the angry murmurs. There was no mistaking the mood. It seemed Edouard was judged already and that was not by chance. He looked at the men surrounding Roch and wondered which among them were enemies.
Arnaud pitched his voice to carry. "The losses at Ralmadre will be avenged, and we will know the truth of what happened." He stared the crowd down, challenging them to suggest the truth was already known, or that Edouard was to blame.
For a moment, Charles thought the Duke would say something; a dozen heartbeats passed. Roch smiled and stepped back. "We trust to the King's judgment." Not a challenge to Arnaud directly, but bad enough, suggesting, subtly, that his father held a different opinion.
Arnaud turned the conversation to ask about the Duke's daughter and her betrothal. The crowd dispersed. When Arnaud moved away, Charles followed him, relieved that confrontation was over. "I'm sorry."
Arnaud glanced at him, a strange look, and said nothing. It came to Charles that the Prince might think he had engineered the scene deliberately, wishing to distance himself from Edouard. It was bad enough to have blundered; it would be a disaster for Chamfort to have Arnaud doubt him now.
He was glad when they reached the haven of the Prince's rooms. As they entered a girl rose from a seat by the window. It took Charles a moment to recognize Gaynor. He knew little of Arnaud's bride, but he was surprised to find her here. She came at once to Arnaud's side, her gaze searching his. He shook his head slightly and smiled at her.
"All is well, Gay," Arnaud said and raised her hand to his lips.
"Are you sure," Gaynor asked. "You looked," she hesitated.
"It is Charles you should be fussing over," said Arnaud, still smiling.
"Of course," she came to greet him. "Can I send for food? Is there anything you need?"
He shook his head. "No, thank you." In truth all he wanted was some time alone with Arnaud. He was desperate to hear the latest news.
Gaynor seemed to understand. She looked once more to Arnaud. "I will go and see your mother."
Arnaud nodded. "I will see you later, sweetheart."
When the door closed, Charles was not sure what to say. He could hardly comment on the change in Arnaud's relationship with his Princess. But it was such a marked thing that to ignore it seemed strange.
"Gay has been a great comfort and support," said Arnaud, and his smile said even more.
"I'm glad for you." It was true. He was glad for Arnaud, and he was glad to know that their rapprochement meant some of the dangerous instabilities at court had been eased. He had other concerns though.
"Truly, I'm sorry. It was foolish to cross words with de Isdorielle," he said and waited anxiously for the Prince's response.
Arnaud sighed as he settled in a chair. He looked tired. "The court and city believes Edouard guilty of all the charges laid against him."
Charles nodded. He did not need to be told how difficult it would be to prove his brother's innocence. Arnaud was still watching him with that strange look.
"I did not intend…" He was not sure how to convince the Prince. "In the past I have been critical of Edouard. I want you to know I do not doubt him. I will stand by him."
The Prince remained silent.
"I will go outside now and proclaim his innocence, if that is what you wish," he said. It occurred to him that Edouard was not completely innocent. He wondered how much Arnaud knew.
"I only need to know you believe it," said Arnaud.
Charles hesitated. It was an impossible situation. He did not want to destroy the Prince's faith in his brother, but neither could he lie to him.
"What is it?" Arnaud asked softly.
He chose his words carefully. "For a long time, Edouard believed in St Andre."
Arnaud nodded.
"He served the Marechal, his commander, obeyed his orders."
"What are you saying?"
Charles did not want to speak the words and at last Arnaud took pity on him.
"You are saying that in serving his commander, a traitor, Edouard carried out acts harmful to Valderon and the throne."
"Yes, but unwittingly," said Charles quickly, thinking that this word summed up his brother too well. He looked anxiously at the Prince but found no sign of distress. "You knew?"
"Diane de Baccasar has provided evidence to my father. It details Edouard's crimes, and suggests St Andre's involvement but cannot offer any proof against the Marechal." He hesitated. "My father is disinclined to believe ill of the Marechal. The evidence suggests Edouard was not an unwitting participant."
Charles guessed the Prince was keeping the worst from him. "I can see how it would look that
way," he said slowly. He wondered if the Prince had doubts. "But you have to understand how loyal Edouard was to St Andre." It was a time for honesty. "Perhaps foolishly so. He did not always get on well with our father. Edouard wanted to escape Chamfort. He did not question the Marechal's orders."
Another silence. He could not read the Prince's face. Had he said too much?
"You say he did not question. But how far would he go to serve St Andre?"
Charles was afraid. "If there is something," he paused. "If there is some accusation… Tell me and I will answer." He did not suggest the Prince doubted Edouard.
"Diane de Baccasar is part of a group called the Compact."
"I have heard of them."
"Along with Mariette de Montmercy, they have been gathering evidence against St Andre. Against Edouard." Arnaud sighed. "I have taken each individual charge and tried to find the truth, but it is impossible to unravel."
"Will you tell me what charges have been made against my brother?"
Arnaud hesitated. "I will, but later."
Charles understood that it was not that Arnaud doubted him. The fear was a hard lump in his belly now. "How bad is it?"
"Very bad. If Edouard returns, or is returned, he will be convicted of high treason and murder."
Chapter 82
Mariette had intended to go straight from Chamfort to the Swan Inn. She had set herself these last tasks to complete her undertaking to the Compact. Her final duty was to see Mario and his wife: to tell them what she had learned and the name of the man who had murdered their daughter. It was a meeting she dreaded; she could not offer Mario and his family any comfort. But after Chamfort she could not face them without time to gather her thoughts.
When she left Chamfort instead of turning south towards Fourges and the Swan Inn, she had turned south west to Montmercy. After everything that had happened the need to see her children was too strong to resist.
Now she sat on a stone bench and watched her son's riding lesson. It was months since she had seen her children, and then only for the shortest visit. Francis had changed, the babyish figure was gone. Daily practice in riding and the martial arts had hardened him. Dressed in riding leathers, he was the image of his father, and she could see he was developing Hugo's quiet confidence. Their reunion had been strange. Francis was almost reserved, as if he was not sure of her. Then he had hugged her as if he would not let her go. It had brought tears to her eyes and a terrible feeling of guilt.
Caterine was still her baby, crawling now and into mischief. But she had not missed so much of her daughter's life. There was a chance to catch up.
Montmercy was as she remembered, but time away had removed the intense pain of Hugo's death and the terrible months that followed. It felt like her home and haven again, a place filled with memories of Hugo. And a haven more than ever now after all she had done and seen. The thought of returning to court made her feel sick.
She rose and waved to Francis, turning back to the castle. The gardens and trees were winter bare. A strange time for a new start. But there was one duty she must complete.
####
The Swan Inn was busy again. In the parlor, a fire roared in the fireplace, and the long trestle tables were packed with travelers and locals. Mariette studied Mario as he escorted her to her rooms. He looked well, though he had not gained back all the weight he had lost. Stefan had told her how grueling their journey to find witnesses to the girl's death had been for Mario.
She wondered if his wife was still angry. Mariette could understand that desire for revenge. But revenge against a man like Edouard de Chamfort was not within an innkeeper's reach. She wondered what difference a name would make to their lives. Would it help them to hear of the other crimes committed by the shadow knights, to know that the King pursued justice on their behalf? Set against what had happened, it was likely the crime against their daughter would have little priority. She did not want to see them caught up in the treacheries of the court, or the frenzy of Ferdinand's revenge. She wondered if the truth still mattered to them, or if they would rather keep only the good memories of Rosalie.
When the luggage was deposited, Mariette touched Mario's arm. "Sit for a moment," she said.
He sat, staring at her anxiously, big hands clasped across his knees. Clearly he knew why she was here and what was coming.
"You and your wife asked me to try and discover Rosalie's murderer and bring him to justice." She watched his face as she spoke. "I have his name, but I wonder now if it will be a comfort or curse for you to know?"
"Why a curse?" he asked.
She wondered how to answer him. "Because he is beyond your justice."
"Is he dead?"
"No."
"Then how can he be beyond justice."
"It is complicated," she said. "But if you want to know what I have discovered then I will come and talk to you and your wife later. I will explain all that we have learned. I thought perhaps you would rather think of Rosalie without remembering."
"We do want to know, my lady." He stood up, hunched a little as if against a heavy load or blow. "And she deserves justice. However hard it is, whoever we must fight to see it done, we owe her that much. And the others too."
"Of course, it is your right. I thought perhaps to spare you some pain, and that was foolish." She had followed her own path through grief; they must do the same, however difficult.
###
She went to their private parlor later, feeling strangely responsible as she faced Mario, his wife and their daughter Cat. She was glad Cat was with her parents, a sensible girl used to handling her mother's outbursts. As Mariette prepared to tell them what she had learned, she struggled again with a sense of responsibility. Somehow it was as if Edouard's crimes were becoming hers, as if by her knowledge she took responsibility. Perhaps it was because when others were convinced of his guilt, she had refused to believe. Now she must live with what that delay had cost.
It was too late to change anything. The tasks she had set herself had seemed important. But now she wondered. The feeling had been stronger since Chamfort, and the final terrible moments of her interview with Rupert. She realized she had taken away his comfort and clarity of purpose. Was she about to do the same to Mario and his family?
In the end, it was not her choice to make.
It was a warm, cozy room, made small by Mario's anxious size. Set high in the eaves of the inn the ceilings sloped sharply; a small window looked down on the barn. She could hear the last patrons laughing as they left the inn and the stamp of horses in the stables.
The embers of a fire glowed in the hearth. There were two chairs with embroidered cushions. Mario offered one to Mariette and then led his wife to the other. As Alice settled, he hovered close by.
The girl, Cat, was warming wine. The smell of cloves and honey filled the room. She brought a cup to Mariette and offered a plate of wafers. As she turned away, Mariette was confronted by Alice's glare.
"You'll tell us now who was responsible for our Rosalie's death? We've been waiting long enough." Alice's face set in hard lines as she spoke. Mariette wondered if it was nerves that made her angry or simply a return to her old belligerence.
"Alice, love," Mario protested. "The Duchess is busy…"
"Aye, too busy for the likes of us." Alice folded her arms across her chest. She looked like a wrestler. "We know how busy she is."
Before Mario could intervene, Cat came to her mother's side. She pressed a cup of spiced wine into her hands. "Hush, Ma. I know you're anxious, but let her tell us." When her mother took the cup, Cat settled on a stool at her feet, leaning back against her mother's legs.
Alice sighed. She cradled the cup in her hands but did not drink. "I'm sorry, my lady, it's a terrible thing to wait to hear how your daughter died."
"But you want to know?" Mariette had to ask, and part of her hoped the woman would say no.
"We want to hear. And we want justice for her." Alice nodded, her anger was gone and ther
e was a glimmer of tears in her eyes.
Mariette set the wine aside and folded her hands in her lap. She was the one who had promised them justice. "You know there have been attacks against other villages both here at Chamfort and in distant domains. Attacks carried out by renegade knights." She saw their shock as she admitted this. "We do not know if these fallen knights are men of Valderon or mercenaries from some other land. We do know they have burned and killed innocents for some dark purpose. We have been working to trace and stop them." She hesitated.
"Was Rosa killed by one of these renegade knights, is that why he cannot be found?" asked Mario. "Is that why you said we have no hope of justice?"
It would be easier if that was true. Or to let them believe it was true. "There is more," she said. Her tone caught their attention. "You know that Rosalie was in Calmon when the attack took place. This village was not attacked by renegade knights." She hesitated again, when they heard what she was going to tell them what would they do? Would they go to Rupert, to the King?
"Tell us, don't make us wait any longer," said the woman. "Please, my lady."
"The village was attacked by the King's knights. Calmon had been identified as sheltering outlaws."
"But that's not possible. Rosa would never…" Mario looked at her in confusion.
She spoke quickly before they could think she meant some criticism of their daughter. "The villagers were innocent. I am sure of that. It was a mistake or a wicked lie to suit some evil purpose that accused them of such treachery. We will make the King aware of this crime; he will be appalled by this terrible betrayal of his trust by men who serve him."
Mario's hands were on his wife's shoulders, as if he could not stand without support. It was the woman who spoke. "Who were these knights that betrayed the King and killed my daughter? Who do they serve? Who brings this evil on us?"
"The knights served the Marechal St Andre, and it was on his orders Calmon was burned." She saw their shock at the mention of the King's most trusted general, but there was no turning back now. Rupert was their overlord, their protector. Bad enough to suggest that there were renegade knights, but what she would now tell them was much worse, news that would be passed around, news that would travel and spread to who knew what consequence.
Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3) Page 79
