Edouard felt good: for the first time he had finished his training routines and was not sick, weak limbed and exhausted. Even the punishing heat was affecting him less. It meant he would have to find ways to work harder, but it was good to feel strong again. He ducked his head beneath the water, touched the bottom and surged to the surface. Water slid like silk across his skin as he waded through the bath to climb the steps. It would be good to saddle a horse and ride, to gallop. The reminder of his lack of freedom hit like a blow.
He managed a grin for Markus, waiting to hand him a towel and a silk robe.
He had learned the names of the two younger slaves and had made the beginnings of a friendship. It made things less awkward now he could laugh and joke with them. He knew the older man was named Julius, but only because he had been told this by Ti. He had been warned not to use the man's given name.
It was easy to remember. Julius was as formal as before. Edouard treated him with the added respect due his age and, taking his cue from the younger men, was cautious when he was around. Julius served him well, and had given him good advice, but somehow he found it hard to trust him. It was different with Markus and Ti, and if it was not a true friendship, he was glad of the chance to talk and laugh.
He finished toweling off and took the robe. "Does the Queen have horses?"
"The best and fastest." Markus grinned. "Faster than the desert wind so they say. You would like to ride?"
"I would," said Edouard, thinking he would like to do anything that would get him away from the palace for even an hour. Now he was fit again it was agony to be cooped up. He had the gardens, but it was not the same. After so many weeks in one place, he felt half crazy and seeing only the same few faces each day did not help. He had too much time with his thoughts and conscience; neither was easy to live with.
Markus nodded sympathetically. It was hard to know what the boys thought about his position. What they knew about him. It was tempting to ask, to use them to find out information about the palace, but he hesitated to put them in that position.
When Julius was not present, Markus and Ti would tell him things about the palace and the city without prompting. Most often they talked about the coliseum. Both of them were obsessed with the gladiators. He did not think they had many chances to go and see the fighters in the arena, but it seemed a web of gossip and news spread across the city. The results of the latest bouts were known quickly, and even those who did not attend the coliseum could bet on the outcome of any contest.
"Lex took a great victory yesterday," said Markus, handing him a towel for his hair.
Lex was Markus's favorite gladiator. Ti supported a man named Gracchus. As far as Edouard could tell, they had only seen their heroes once or twice but enjoyed their victories as fiercely as if they were present to witness every blow.
Edouard was amused by their enthusiasm. He listened, asked questions, and tried to hide his contempt for men who fought, even killed, for glory and gold. But as the days passed he developed a slight fascination with the world of the gladiator. The stories he heard kindled a desire to test his own skill in the arena. He knew it was something he should not even think about. His father would have a fit. Charles would be horrified. And Ferdinand, saints of mercy, Ferdinand would be furious, taking it as a personal slight.
In Valderon, the gladiators were seen as brutal barbarians. Without a code of honor, conquest in single combat through skill at arms was reduced to an act of bloodthirsty violence. But was there really a difference? It was an uncomfortable thought. He pushed it aside as Markus asked, "Shall I fetch the sticks?"
He nodded; it was a game they played. He might not have a sword, but thanks to Markus and Ti, he had the chance to spar. They had shown him the stick dance, an ancient tradition among the Allesari, a mock fight using sticks or canes, usually performed to a chant or music. At first he had watched them perform the moves. Later he had tried it for himself, working with Ti. It was harder than it seemed. He found it a useful way to increase fluidity and control. Lately they had moved away from tradition, and most sessions ended up in a three way running battle. If Markus suggested a game, it meant Julius was not around and there was no chance they would be caught.
Markus returned. He tossed a stick into the air. Edouard caught and spun it between his hands. He grinned as Ti arrived, also carrying a stick.
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Lord Shamet made his way to the guest apartments. He paused outside the door to de Chamfort's rooms to consider his misgivings. After a moment, he raised his hand to knock, the point about freedom and control had been made during his last visit. This time, he would offer some measure of respect and give the boy a chance to play his part. The knock went unanswered. He knew the boy was in his rooms. Time passed. Shamet mused on the subtleties of protocol and respect. Ferdinand of Valderon's court was sophisticated and worldly. Edouard de Chamfort was no stranger to court etiquette, but clearly it was not something he had troubled to master. It made things difficult. Losing patience, Shamet reached for the door handle as a voice called out.
"Enter."
Shamet entered.
De Chamfort was standing near the bed, holding a cushion. The two younger slaves assigned to serve him stood close by. The room was in disarray. For a moment Shamet was concerned the disorder indicated there had been some kind of threat to their guest's safety.
"What happened here?" he asked sharply.
A heartbeat's hesitation then de Chamfort answered. "I was looking for something." The hint of a smile was quickly hidden.
Shamet did not have sons, but he did have nephews. He did not smile. "Perhaps the slaves might tidy." He clapped his hands, pre-empting any answer.
The two slaves hurried to obey. They looked flushed and anxious. There was no sign of the older man, Julius.
"See to your duties, and be quick," said Shamet. He held them with a look. "And bring wine for your master." It was a reminder and a warning.
They bowed and backed away eyes cast down. Watching them, de Chamfort looked uncomfortable and for a moment it seemed he might say something. Shamet waited, horrified and fascinated, but in the end their guest remained silent. Shamet was relieved; at least the boy was not a complete fool. He waited, allowing him to act as host.
After a pause, de Chamfort took his cue and led the way to the balcony. One of the slaves brought wine. De Chamfort nodded thanks. A look passed between the two young men. Conspirators, no that was too strong a word Shamet decided, friends perhaps, playmates certainly. This was a dangerous breach of protocol and good sense. It occurred to Shamet that de Chamfort had no knowledge of the court of Allesarion. He had come here without preparation, running for his life. Looked at in one way this made his guilt less likely, or at least made him a very poor conspirator.
Whatever horseplay had occurred, it was a reminder of his earlier thought. This was a young man used to freedom and the daily mental and physical test of combat. Now he was fit and well it would be necessary to rethink things. A bored, caged tiger might become difficult to manage. Shamet had enough problems dealing with the latest of Micia's amusements, particularly now Chiara had taken an interest; he did not need any more problems.
The thought did not improve his mood. "Your father has written to Queen Micia." He held out the letter. De Chamfort made no move to take it and did not look eager to learn what his father had to say. Shamet said patiently, "I thought you might like to read his letter?"
"Of course." He took the letter, grudgingly, scanned the contents and handed it back without speaking.
Shamet was not inclined to do all the work. He concentrated on his wine and allowed a silence to develop. The boy, it was almost impossible to think of him any other way, had no social graces, and not the slightest hint of sophistication. He did not dissemble, or seem to understand the need. How a Prince's son could be so gauche was beyond Shamet's comprehension. Prince Rupert was a cultured man, as was his eldest son, Charles. There was no sign of such acuity in Edouard de Chamf
ort. In truth, it was not hard to imagine how he came to be in this position. But again that did not make him innocent.
Shamet wondered what would happen if he asked. Would de Chamfort blurt out everything? He was almost afraid to find out. There were things he felt it would not be politic to know, despite Micia's wishes. There were undoubtedly things it would be madness for the boy to admit. Yet not knowing was dangerous.
"Did you speak with your father before you left?" he asked.
De Chamfort shook his head emphatically. "He had nothing to do with any of this."
Shamet nodded. Dull witted loyalty did not impress him. "Perhaps he would have given different advice?"
"He would uphold the King's law, always. No one is above the law."
It was hardly a well thought out response. No mention of guilt or innocence, but an unfortunate implication. "And that is why you did not go to him?" he asked.
De Chamfort shrugged, seeing the trap too late. "It is not so simple, decisions made in the heat of battle..."
Shamet raised a peremptory hand, demanding silence. Micia wanted the truth. Shamet wanted something more acceptable to the position they found themselves in. He suspected the truth would be complicated and unhelpful, but the boy must surely have prepared a story by now. He was not sure he wanted to test that theory. "Your training goes well?" he said.
"Yes. Thank you." De Chamfort seemed pleased by the change of subject. "But it would be better if I had a sword."
"Of course, and more dangerous," said Shamet. He noticed that the irony did not register with their guest. Silence. Shamet supposed it would last all night if left to de Chamfort. He wondered what Micia would make of the boy and fought an urge to smile. He had no doubt she would be annoyed to fury within a minute of meeting him. Though it might be a different matter if she saw him fight.
The sun was sinking, disappearing behind the palace walls. Night always came quickly in Micia's palace. And with it more complicated games. He set the wineglass down. "Will you send word to your father?"
A moment's hesitation. "No."
"Or your brother?"
The hesitation was longer this time. "No."
Blood from a stone would be easier. Shamet supposed one would not expect gratitude or pretty manners from a tiger. The thought annoyed him. He had been too kind to their young guest. He rose smoothly, setting his wine glass aside, and then turned back as if struck by an afterthought. "You spoke of decisions made in the heat of battle," he said. "You refer to the defeat at Ralmadre; surely your failure there could be excused by youth and inexperience? Why would King Ferdinand name it treason?"
Shock leached color from the de Chamfort's face. "I was not responsible for the defeat. I…" Outrage and fury brought him to silence rather than any hint of good sense. Spilled wine trickled like blood between his fingers. He did not notice.
"And the murder of your commander, Marechal St Andre? The King claims that when the Marechal called you to account for your actions, your treason at Ralmadre, you murdered the Marechal to hide your guilt." He received no answer. "Surely you cannot be surprised by such questions? You sought our protection. You ask us to shelter you and refuse your Uncle's demands for justice. Do you think this is a thing that can be undertaken lightly? Or in an unworthy cause?"
"No," said de Chamfort and added belatedly." The Queen has been generous. I appreciate your continued support." The words were offered through gritted teeth and held not the merest hint of sincerity.
Shamet sighed. He hoped the boy understood what was required. "It grows late. We will speak of these matters again," he said. "Before we do, remember that you would not go into battle unprepared." It was a fair warning he thought and more than de Chamfort deserved.
"Of course." De Chamfort followed him from the balcony. The slaves were nowhere to be seen. In their absence, there were no lanterns, and the room was full of shadows.
Shamet frowned. It was a timely reminder not to feel sorry for the young man. He had not yet touched on the most difficult questions. Ties to dark sorcery would not easily be explained.
Chapter 84
The door closed behind Lord Shamet, but the lash of his contempt lingered. Or so it seemed to Edouard. He prowled the shadowed room, driven by fury and disbelief. After two circuits of the bed, he stopped, picked up a velvet pillow and punched it viciously. Shamet's visit had made several things brutally clear. The chancellor's words had been intended as warning and lesson. He understood; all his life old men had lectured him. Demanded he play their games.
But he could not believe Ferdinand was blaming him for the defeat at Ralmadre. Blaming him for the deaths of his brother knights and so many brave men. The thought stirred him to white hot anger and grief. He had not thought his uncle would stoop to such lies, or that his hatred could be so great. Perhaps Ferdinand believed the reports, which was even worse. The anger and despair warred within him until he wanted to scream. He punched the pillow again and goose down drifted free. With a shout of fury, Edouard spun the cushion through the open windows. He heard it fall among the fountains, disrupting the play of water for a moment and startling sleeping birds. He growled in anger and paced the room.
Shamet's words echoed over and over in his head. Ferdinand was saying he had betrayed the army at Ralmadre and murdered his commander to hide his guilt. He wondered who had placed that sweetly convenient idea in the King's head. The crimes he was guilty of were bad enough without embellishment. And harder yet to answer with St Andre dead, which was a fine irony. Bad planning on his part or so Charles would no doubt tell him.
Edouard did not like that thought. He did not like that he must answer to Shamet. He was not a complete fool. Whatever Shamet might claim, Micia had her own agenda in this, and his guilt or innocence was of little consequence to her. While she tweaked Ferdinand's nose, they had him caged and teased like a circus animal.
He stretched until his shoulders cracked. It came to him that he was tired of the cage, of playing by other men's rules. The idea made him grin. It was not a grin to indicate pleasure. It was a grin his friends would have recognized from the sparring ground and tourney field. After a moment, the grin faded.
The roil of anger and emotion ebbed away. This could not go on any longer. He must take action of some sort. Shamet had indicated as much. He called the boys. They came looking nervous and bowing to the floor. That stirred his anger too.
He touched them both on the shoulder and waited until they stood, reluctantly, facing him. "I'm sorry for what happened. I'll tell them it was my doing if you need me to."
Ti shook his head vigorously, but it was Markus who answered, nervously sincere.
"It won't do any good, my lord. And if they knew what we had done…"
Edouard sent them away. It was the kindest thing to do. He swore to himself that if any harm came to them through serving him, he would tear Micia's palace down around her ears. The extravagance of the thought pleased him, however ridiculous it might be, and he grinned again.
He walked out onto the balcony and surveyed the courtyard below. The fountains ran sweetly now, the cushion's gold tassels glistened among the water lilies. Beyond, the courtyard, lamps were lit along paths through the gardens and would stay lit all night. He curled his fingers around the balcony's marble balustrade and leaned, precariously, to view the shadows beneath his room. The courtyard had three doors one to the garden, the other two leading into the palace were always locked. There were guards outside his door day and night.
His gaze turned to the other balconies surrounding the courtyard. All dark. The other suites had gates that led to the courtyard. All were locked and barred. He did not remember seeing lights or hearing voices in any of the other rooms. It seemed he was the only guest lodged in this part of the palace. For once his rooms were in darkness too. The courtyard below was empty: the guards placed there during the day were not present at night when the gates to the gardens were bolted.
Edouard climbed on to the marble balustrade
. It was easily wide enough to walk along and the distance to the next balcony was not too far. Edouard leaped. He caught the edge of the marble balustrade and swung himself over. He landed softly on the balcony of the next room.
He crouched for a moment, listening. Silence. The room lay in darkness and seemed empty. He slipped through the doors. The layout of this room was different to his. The bed set along one wall. As his eyes adjusted, he crossed a floor scattered with soft rugs. The door was closed. He tried the handle and found the door was locked. He put his eye to the keyhole and saw a fragment of the corridor. No sign of the guards, though he knew they stood outside his room day and night. He listened and after a wait was rewarded with the murmur of voices. If he watched long enough he could find out the guards' position and number and at what hour they were relieved.
He returned to the balcony and crossed to the next room. It was empty but for a vast bed shrouded in silks. Startled by movement he froze and looked to his left. A figure stared back at him from the shadows. It took a moment to realize it was his reflection. A breathless gasp of laughter escaped him and a shiver of nerves.
The sensation shocked him. Not so much fear, but anxiety. He had been a prisoner too long. Prisoner. The word settled in his mind. He owed Micia no thanks. She was using him and without even the courtesy due his rank. It was more than obvious. Pride and anger surged, he would not be herded and led like a sheep to slaughter.
He stood a moment longer to get his bearings. No rugs in this room; the marble tiles were cool beneath his feet as he crossed to the door. Patiently he eased the latch down and cracked the door open. He looked into the corridor. The guards were out of sight around the corner. He opened the door a little wider. The corridor was deserted.
Edouard grinned as he made his way back to his rooms.
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Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3) Page 81
