Mariette took a breath. It must be said. "There is more. The knights rode from Chamfort and were led by Prince Rupert's son."
The girl, Cat, was watching her intently now. Her face was pale as milk, her eyes huge in the candlelight. Silent until now she asked, "Which son?"
The question confused Mariette, caught up in the horror of what she must tell them. She stared at the girl, uncomprehending.
"The Prince has four sons doesn't he?" Cat was leaning forward as if she must hear the answer before it was spoken.
"It was his second son." Mariette saw this meant nothing to Mario and his wife. She hurried to finish. "Edouard de Chamfort led the knights and it was him the witnesses saw in the woods. He murdered Rosalie. I am so sorry—"
"No!"
The girl's cry shocked Mariette. She had half expected an outburst of fury from Alice, but not this terrible cry of denial from the girl.
"No! That's not true!" Cat sprung to her feet. She looked to her parents. "Don't believe her." She turned on Mariette. "Why would you lie to us?" There were tears in her eyes. "Such a terrible lie."
It was hard to speak. Impossible to believe this was happening. "I wouldn't lie to you, about this or anything. This is not news I wanted to bring you. I know what you have suffered."
Mario came forward and caught the girl's shoulders gently. "Cat, my sweet, what's wrong? Why would you think the Duchess is lying to us? She is the only one who has cared enough to help."
But the girl would not be comforted. "If she is not lying then it must be a mistake. It was one of the Prince's other sons."
Mario looked to her anxiously. "Is that possible, my lady. That it is a mistake?"
"No." Her throat ached with shock and the effort of holding back angry tears. Perhaps she deserved such punishment. "The twins are too young, and it was not Charles." She could not bear the look on the girl's face. "I have nothing to gain by lying. I promised you the truth. I wish it were something different I had to tell you."
The girl shook her head. "It is a wicked lie."
"At least tell me why you don't believe me?" Mariette demanded.
Alice had been watching in silence. She rose now and took her daughter's arm, drawing Cat to sit in her chair. When Cat was seated, Alice took her place on the stool. Gently she took Cat's hand. "I don't believe the Duchess would lie to us, Cat. She has suffered her own loss." Alice stroked the girl's hand. "Tell us why this upsets you so, my love. Why would this man mean anything to you?"
Mariette had never seen the woman so tender, her powerful hands so soft. Mario stood over them looking helpless, stricken. "Tell us, Cat," he pleaded.
Tears trickled down Cat's face. There was no doubting her distress. She looked to Mariette. "You won't understand," she said, and there was a touch of anger beneath the distress.
Alice sighed. "Is it to do with the gift? Is that why you won't speak?" She pressed her daughter's hand to her lips. "You must tell, Cat. I will explain if needs be."
The girl sniffed. "I met him," she said. "I would know if…"
"When did you meet him, Cat?" Alice asked.
"It was weeks after Rosa was killed." Cat looked to Mariette, challenging her as she said, "I have the gift; it's not as strong as Rosa, but it’s strong enough. If I met the man who murdered my sister, I would know it." She turned to her mother. "Please tell her, Ma."
Alice did not hesitate. "It's true, my lady. I'd stake my life on it," she said. "The gift has been in my family for generations. Not all the women have the strength to be daughters of the mysteries like our Rosa. But near all women in the family have the gift in some way." She smiled at her daughter. "Cat has had a way of seeing the heart of folks, ever since she was a child. I've never known her to be wrong."
"But how would you meet him, Cat?" Mario watched his daughter anxiously. "I'd surely know if the Prince's son stayed here and where else would you meet him?"
"He did stay here," said Cat. A little color had returned to her cheeks. "It was the night of the storm. The inn was full."
Her parents stared at her. "The night of the storm," Mario repeated. "But…" His face changed to a look of incredulity. "The boy in the barn?"
"The boy in the barn?" Alice shook her head. "Oh my sweet, Cat. All this time you kept this secret. Even when we teased you." She folded her daughter in a hug strong enough to crush the girl.
"I would know. I couldn't be that wrong about him. You believe me don't you, Ma?"
"Of course." There were tears in Alice's eyes and an unspoken understanding. "You could not be wrong about such a thing."
Mariette looked to Mario. "Who was the boy in the barn?" she asked. A strange feeling settled on her, as if she stood on a precipice, the ground uncertain beneath her feet. The girl's certainty shocked her, but was it real? How could it be? Mariette knew she must hold to her truth. She could not be wrong.
Mario looked as confused as she felt. He put his hand on his wife's shoulder. "Alice will you explain."
It was a moment before the woman looked up. Then she wiped her tears away and turned to Mariette. "No offense, but you must have it wrong, my lady. My girl spent time with him. Tended his wounds. If he had done evil she would know."
"I don't mean to doubt her gift." Mariette said gently. "But why does she think the boy in the barn was Edouard de Chamfort?"
The woman looked unsure for a moment. She turned to her daughter. "How did you know who he was, Cat? He never made himself known."
"Why would he stay in a barn?" Mariette asked.
"There was a storm and his horse fell and cast a shoe," Cat met her gaze fearlessly, as though they were engaged in a battle, and in a way they were. "I found him tending the horse. He was happy to stay in the barn. I don't think he wanted to be recognized. At first I was cross with him for swearing at the horse, but then I saw how he had cared for the animal before himself. We talked and I guessed who he was. I saw the crest on his sword too though he did not realize it. When I asked he told me his name was Edouard, though I saw what it cost for him to trust me."
Mariette did not know what to say. She saw the girl's eyes harden, understanding her silence as a refusal to believe.
"His face was bruised as if he had been in a fight," said Cat. "And he had many scars on his body from old wounds." She blushed a little. "His clothes were wet, that's how I saw the scars."
"There was a misunderstanding, my lady," said Mario, rubbing his head. "And a small fight."
"When was this?" she asked.
The girl looked at her father.
Mario thought for a moment. "The storm came the week after the hay was brought in."
It made sense and, in many ways, sounded like Edouard: the care for his horse, the misunderstanding and the fight. Who else would get into such trouble while trying to stay hidden. He had scars as the girl described, and he would have bruises from the tournament where Rupert was injured. It also tallied with what Rupert had told her. Edouard had visited Chamfort and spoke with Charles before he rode south with the army. An illicit visit so he would not want to be recognized at the inn. Perhaps he only stopped so close to Chamfort because of the storm and the injury to his horse. But that did not change the evidence from the villagers. She did not want to dismiss the girl's feelings, but the truth mattered more. "The villagers who saw Rosa in the woods, they described Edouard too. They saw him by her body, covered in her blood. Your father heard what they had to say. I'm sorry, but there is no doubt."
"I don't know what they saw," said Cat, hissing, fierce as her namesake. "But they were mistaken. I know you don't understand the gift, don't believe in it. Do you think I would protect my sister's murderer if there were any shred of doubt?"
Mariette met the girl's gaze. "He was seen. There are witnesses. Your father has spoken with them."
The girl looked to her father. "It must be a mistake," she said, with frightening certainty. She looked back to Mariette. "Speak to them again. Perhaps they did not see what they thought they saw."
Mariette did not answer. The girl was wrong. Mariette stamped down on the flicker of doubt before it could become a flame that would consume her.
"My lady, surely there can be no harm in speaking to the villagers again." Mario glanced to his daughter. "I would go, and take Cat with me and your Captain if you could spare him?"
Mariette nodded once. If they must hear it for themselves, she would not stop them. "Stefan will take you. He will send word to me afterward." She did not offer them any hope. She did not say it was too late. Diane had taken the Compact's evidence to the King.
"Thank you, my lady." Mario looked to his daughter. "We will go together, Cat. You can hear what they have to say."
The girl did not answer. Mariette felt the weight of Cat's gaze. It was as if the girl knew everything, all that had been between her and Edouard. And the girl was judging her.
She looked up, met Cat's gaze and held it. Met the challenge in that gaze too and allowed her own anger to show. How dare this child challenge her, presume to know the heart of Edouard de Chamfort better than she did, after all she had done to find the truth. But it was as if the girl had put a sliver of ice in her heart.
Mariette shook her head. There was proof enough against Edouard. And it was too late. That evidence had been given to the King.
She had heard the villagers' evidence. She would not allow herself to doubt.
Chapter 83
Lord Shamet rose with the dawn. His secretaries and clerks were waiting. Even with a hundred matters to claim his attention, treaties and trade, matters of law and policy, one matter troubled him more than any other. He found himself standing in the shadows on a second floor balcony watching Edouard de Chamfort train. The boy rose early too. Each day he trained harder, was stronger, faster. Even without a sword, there was a deadly grace to his movements.
It annoyed Shamet that, without realizing it, he seemed to have developed a measure of sympathy for de Chamfort. It should not have been the case, given the trouble the boy was causing him. He suspected Micia had manipulated him in some way, but he could not work out why.
The news from Valderon was not good. Shamet had received reports describing King Ferdinand's anger and threats. He had also received warnings. His correspondents and spies were of the opinion that if de Chamfort was not returned, Ferdinand would take action. The suggestion that the King might send men to reclaim a guest of the royal house of Allesarion by force should have been amusing, ridiculous. It was not. Micia claimed to be amused, perhaps she was. It would humiliate Ferdinand further if his assassins were caught in Allesarion. Shamet was worried his Queen would overplay her hand.
Shamet regretted that he had ever set eyes on their guest but, at the same time, he was starting to feel a niggling sense of responsibility. The boy was caught like a bone between two angry dogs. Micia had raised the question of de Chamfort's guilt and innocence. By sheltering him, the Queen had undoubtedly increased King Ferdinand's anger and the more he heard of Ferdinand's fury, the more he questioned whether de Chamfort could expect any sort of fair trial. It weighed on Shamet's mind. He knew what would happen if the situation were reversed, such a betrayal left deep scars. It all came down to the question he was reluctant to answer. Was the boy a traitor to his king and country?
He watched de Chamfort execute turns and feints, fierce as a tiger. There was honesty in such effort and precision. It was hard to imagine duplicity alongside such beauty of purpose. Such simplicity of purpose and that was the heart of it. Shamet sighed. He was about to go down to the courtyard and speak with de Chamfort when a summons came from the Queen. He paused for a moment and then turned away; sometimes such moments decided the course of things.
Micia was in the stables. She was dressed in soft leather trousers underneath a loose robe. Her hair bound in a turban which was draped to cover her face. Shamet paused when he saw the golden haired girl at her side. Hiding his unease, he went forward and bowed to the Queen and to her cousin, the Princess Chiara.
Micia loved to ride and took pride in breeding the finest horses, beautiful hot-blooded desert stock, with bold eyes and delicate bones, horses that could outrun the desert winds. She was inspecting a favorite mare, due to foal soon. Her hands traced the swollen belly as she bent to look to the mare's teats.
"Not long now," she said.
"Perhaps tonight, majesty," the stable master smiled and stroked the mare's soft nose. "She will give you a champion."
"Take good care of her." Micia's face was hidden, but there was a smile and unusual softness in her voice.
She turned from the mare to Shamet and the softness was gone. "Walk with us."
He obeyed. The Princess joined them.
When they were beyond earshot, Chiara spoke. "Why are we sheltering Valderonese scum?"
The question was addressed to him. He glanced to the Queen, but she remained silent, her face hidden. It was plain he was to take the blame for Edouard de Chamfort's presence. Micia's fury that Ferdinand had refused her cousin for his son was well known. Few outside the Allesarion court knew that Princess Chiara's rage outmatched it ten times over.
Chiara was heir to the throne. It was not formalized. Micia might still marry and produce an heir. Whatever happened she would not risk naming an heir; in Allesarion family ambition had proved deadly too many times. But she favored her cousin, felt she could control Chiara and so trusted her as much as she trusted anyone. That made Chiara powerful. The court had learned to fear her temper, but not to love her. Micia was clever.
Shamet kept his voice neutral. "He is at odds with King Ferdinand. By sheltering him we snub the King and cause strife in Valderon. I hope this pleases you, my princess."
"But why is he here, in the palace? His presence offends me. I cannot walk in the gardens without being insulted by it."
He doubted Chiara had much interest in the gardens. "We must keep him safe from his uncle's vengeance. A dead pawn is no use," said Shamet.
"But he need not be here, kept in luxury. Must I be reminded of what happened every day?"
"Where would you have us keep him?" Shamet knew it was rash, but he was not amused to be Chiara's whipping boy for a strategy of which he disapproved.
"Send him to the mines," said Chiara. "His uncle will not find him there."
Micia laughed. "He is of royal blood, my darling."
"He is a pig from a land of pigs. You give him status among us, the court sees this. Have you no care for the injury done to me?"
There was some justice to Chiara's complaint: honoring de Chamfort was a slight to her pride, and there were those at court who might see it as a sign of a fall from favor, a sign of weakness. Weakness was dangerous in Allesarion, royal weakness doubly so.
"It will not be for long," he said, choosing his next words carefully. "I am certain that the court understands. It is obvious he is more prisoner than honored guest." His decision to keep the boy secluded had paid off in one way at least. It would not do to allow Chiara a reason to transfer her anger at de Chamfort to him.
The Princess did not look convinced or appeased. Sometimes he thought Micia indulged her purposefully.
"Shamet is right," said Micia. "We have shown him no favor. It is plain to all that our interest is in gaining revenge for the injury Ferdinand has done us."
Shamet felt a burst of relief, grateful for Micia's intervention. Chiara was unpredictable, and could be a dangerous adversary. She did not look pleased, but even she had sense enough to know when a matter was closed. Without further protest, she turned away and went to mount the mare a groom held waiting.
When her cousin was out of earshot, Micia turned aside to summon one of her attendants. The slave brought a packet. Shamet took it from her, hiding a prickle of unease. It contained a single letter. He scanned the contents.
Micia waited for him to finish reading.
He looked to her and shrugged. The letter was from the boy's father, Prince Rupert. To call it brief would be an understatement. He read
it again, trying to discern a deeper message among the formal words of thanks and regret expressed to Micia for the situation in which his son had placed her. He found nothing.
A slave led out a gray stallion. Micia settled the cloth covering her face. One hundred Athari were mounted and waiting in the stable yard. She gestured to the letter. "What does it mean?"
"It seems to be a letter of apology and rather muted thanks." Shamet spread his hands and shrugged again to indicate he could not decipher any other message. "Perhaps he dare not say more. Ferdinand has arrested the Prince's eldest son, for no other reason than his family name and blood ties to our guest." She knew the situation between Prince Rupert and his brother; she had investigated it in the past. It was she who had told him that Prince Rupert was loyal. He did not know the details, or how she had come by her information, sometimes Micia took action without telling him.
Micia was mounted now. The stallion pricked his ears and danced, eager to gallop, to taste the desert wind. The same impatience was in Micia's voice. "Speak to him again. I would know if he is guilty of these charges."
Shamet watched her ride away. She seemed a slight, vulnerable figure, surrounded by ranks of her Athari, but she could defend herself. In the early days of her reign, he had seen her kill an assassin. She trained with a blade every day.
He did not go at once to de Chamfort.
###
In Micia's palace, the guest rooms had large marble baths that could be quickly filled with hot or cold water. Edouard did not know how it was done, but it was one luxury he enjoyed. The bath was large enough to stretch, roll and dive. The bath room was huge, covered with bright colored tiles set in intricate patterns. On one side, there was marble seating, on the other couches where masseurs could work.
Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3) Page 80
