She felt he was not only speaking of the arena and a question formed in her mind. He rose, ending the conversation. His bow was immaculate, but she could tell he was displeased. "Perhaps you are right," he said. "Later a judgment will be made in the arena. I do not know if justice will be served." He bowed again. "But justice is not always a simple matter."
When Lord Shamet walked away, she saw what had drawn him from her side. Clement St Andre and his retinue had arrived. She saw the dark, bearded face of Baron Joachim; he was staring at her and smiling. His men had killed Remy's friend Simon and Father Peter; he would have killed Remy too. She could not bear to see him savoring the moment, anticipating victory.
She watched Shamet escort them to seats close to where the Queen would be seated. She saw him treat them with the same polished courtesy. In the arena, a man was screaming as he died, she could hear it even with the crowd's roar. The screaming stopped, but as the fight reached its climax, the crowd's passion was a living thing. A dark monster tearing at the barriers of her mind. She felt Roslaire's gaze, the touch of his hand on hers.
"We should leave," he said. "We are being used."
She shook her head. It was a moment before she could speak. "I don't think we will be allowed to." There were guards at the entrances and Micia's Athari lined the walkways, signaling that the Queen would soon arrive. She thought Roslaire was right. They were being used, but she was not sure how.
Micia arrived when the fight was over and the arena cleared of bodies. A fanfare of trumpets and a buzz of anticipation greeted her. She wore crimson silk; the veil that covered her face was edged with pearls. She stood for a moment so the crowd could see her. A roar swelled and filled the amphitheater. Shamet was at her side, a sober figure.
When the Queen was seated, heralds entered the arena and announced the honor duel. Flanked by another set of heralds Gaspard de Nortial was announced. Then Edouard, she was surprised to hear the crowd shout his name.
"He is known," said Roslaire. "He has fought in the arena before."
"Is that good?"
He nodded. "He has experience and the crowd's support. Both will aid him."
The heralds' announcements were prolonged. The two men stood side by side as the rules were read out and each indicated acceptance of the rules under which the honor duel would be fought. The herald finished by stating that it would be a duel to the death, asking both men if they accepted this. The heralds were nominated as seconds. A document was signed.
When it was done, Edouard de Chamfort and Gaspard de Nortial faced each other at the center of the arena. Each carried a sword and dagger. They wore leather breastplates and greaves. The difference in their size and physique was marked, de Nortial towered over Edouard.
The crowd watched in silence, already gripped by the drama.
A fanfare of horns echoed shrilly against the coliseum's stone and died. Micia had risen. She stepped forward and raised her hand. The silence was eerie and complete. The Queen's hand swept down and the crowd roared.
Mariette had watched hundreds of combats in the lists, training grounds and at tournaments. From the first moments, this was different. Sometimes rivalries got out of hand, matches turned vicious. Until today she had never watched men fight to kill. She had never watched men of this caliber fight at this pitch.
Edouard was Chamfort trained, a natural athlete and swordsman. De Nortial might dismiss the training ground but he honed his skill in other arenas; his combination of skill, size and strength were unmatched. And despite his bulk he was quick. The first engagement was fast, almost too fast to follow. Their skill left her breathless.
It was ironic. In this ill-starred duel to the death, from this mismatched pair, Allesarion was getting the best display she had ever seen of the skill of Valderon's knights. It made her shiver with pride and fear. She heard awe in the silence that settled over the coliseum. She saw it in the ranks of gladiators gathered to watch.
Time lost meaning. What she was watching seemed unreal. Each attack was met, every cut parried, power absorbed, speed matched. This went on for so long, she thought they would continue this terrible dance forever. But such perfection could not be maintained. Edouard mistimed a parry and suffered the first cut, a shallow wound to his shoulder. Soon after de Nortial missed his footing, Edouard's blade sliced through the leather protecting his belly and drew blood. They were matched again.
Then the fight changed. Edouard began to take risks. It was his nature to do so and perhaps it was a tactic; he could not match the giant knight forever and he could not outlast him. The crowd noticed the change. The coliseum stirred as if waking from a dream. A rustle of noise filled the arena. Edouard's skill was mesmerizing, pushed to the edge as he took risks time and again. The crowd roared approval.
Mariette dashed away foolish tears and fought against elation. He would do it, against all odds. And Ferdinand would have to accept it as proof of his innocence. She pushed aside any doubt. Perhaps Shamet was right. This was a truer test than a game of words played out among the twisted alliances of the court. Edouard had said as much, each man held to his own truth. Instead he laid his life on the line to prove his truth.
A sliver of doubt remained. It was too simple. It might make sense here as they fought, but the truth of this moment would be lost too. Roslaire was right; it would not endure against Ferdinand's rage, or against the King's ability to decide how history would be written.
In the arena the fight had entered a new phase. Despite the risks and abandon with which he fought, Edouard had not succeeded in breaching de Nortial's defense. Both men had taken shallow cuts and blows. The effort Edouard had expended was taking its toll, and he was tiring. The crowd had not noticed, but she had watched him so often, knew him so well. And yet he still took risks. It was madness against an opponent of de Nortial's quality.
Gradually, there was a change in de Nortial too, a grim determination settled over the giant knight. He pursued Edouard relentlessly. The pitch at which they fought left her breathless.
It could not go on.
The fight brought them close beneath the royal stand. Edouard held his ground; dazzling sword work gave him the advantage. For a moment, she thought he had de Nortial at his mercy. But even in that moment she realized he had overreached. It took him a heartbeat too long to recover: de Nortial's sword swept down and struck Edouard's neck above the breastplate.
The crowd groaned.
She saw Edouard fall; before she could look away, she saw blood spurt from the terrible wound. A fatal wound, there could be no doubt of it. She closed her eyes for a moment, when she looked again his blood pooled on the sand. Gaspard de Nortial stepped back and raised his sword, a strangely subdued gesture. The crowd's noise stilled to a whisper of sound, a last gasp of breath echoed around the arena. Edouard struggled to rise. He fell back. His fingers still curled around the hilt of his sword as if he would not give up, even now. His body convulsed with the effort of drawing breath. He was alive.
She did not want to watch.
She could not look away.
The moment lengthened. Men came running from the gladiators' tunnel. Among them were men dressed in the robes of court physicians. One bent to examine Edouard. A runner was dispatched to the Queen. Blood still seeped onto the sand, but it ran slowly now. Edouard had not moved again. Gaspard de Nortial stood off a little, watching, still holding his bloody sword.
Mariette took a breath. Roslaire's hand gripped her arm. "It's done," he said. "We should leave." He was looking around for a way out. The physician was bent over Edouard, but he was not doing anything, just waiting.
The runner had reached the Queen. She listened and then Lord Shamet rose. He gave a signal. A roll of drums began. The Athari had turned to the arena and raised their fists. Some of the crowd came to their feet.
Mariette did not understand what was happening. She looked to Roslaire.
"He is not yet dead. The drums will be silenced to mark when it is over." Even as he
spoke the physician raised his hand and moments later the drum roll faded.
Shamet was at the Queen's side. He gestured and scribes came running carrying scrolls and ink. A desk was brought and set in front of the Queen. Mariette watched in a daze.
Clement St Andre was on his feet, arms raised in victory. Baron Joachim stood alongside him. Gaspard de Nortial had left the arena. A thunder of stamping feet began as the drums quieted. A litter was brought into the arena. She watched as the body was lifted from the sand by six gladiators. She recognized Angelo de Loristen among them and thought nothing of it. The body was covered by lengths of blue and gold silk. The sword placed on the silk.
The litter was carried away by the gladiators.
"The gladiators honor him as they would honor their own," said Roslaire.
De Nortial emerged from the tunnels and came to bow before the Queen. He knelt to receive his prize. A purse and another object passed from the Queen's hand to his. Mariette could not see what the object was, but she saw that it glittered. Clement St Andre came forward, and scrolls were laid out, signed and witnessed. A great seal was used. The scrolls were rolled and placed in leather tubes, seals were set on these before they were handed to Clement St Andre. It happened quickly. The scribes disappeared, and she could not see Lord Shamet either. Clement St Andre was given a seat at the Queen's side. She spoke with him for some time.
The crowd had settled back into their seats, still subdued. Wine and food sellers began moving among the stands and gradually the roar of conversation returned.
When she looked back to the arena, the blood was gone from the sand. Men were raking the sands and preparing for this next match.
A man came to kneel at her side. His brown hair was cut short, his arms and shoulders heavily muscled. "My lady, a carriage is waiting. It is time you left."
"Who sent you?" Roslaire asked.
"A friend."
She rose, hardly caring what that meant, desperate to be away from this place. The man led them into the tunnels, taking a different, longer route than the way Shamet had brought them. It was a long walk and the tunnels were cold and dark after the arena; she was grateful for Roslaire's hand on her arm.
A carriage was waiting. Roslaire lifted her like a child. He turned to speak with the man who had guided them. Then he climbed up beside her. A whip cracked and the carriage moved forward. They traveled fast through deserted streets. Soon they left the city behind. Roslaire held her in his arms.
She could not stop shivering. "You were right," she said. "I should've listened. I never meant –"
"There was nothing you could have done." Roslaire pressed a flask into her hands. "Drink this, it will help."
She drank. The coliseum was waiting when she closed her eyes. Blood on the sand. She looked up at Roslaire. Whatever he had given her was strong and fast. There was only one thing she wanted. "Take me home."
"Everything is ready. We will sail before nightfall," he promised.
Chapter 99
The Compact's men waited silently beneath the trees. It was the fourth lead they had followed. The others had been useless, but already they knew this one was different. A dark manor with a bad history, the sort of place people avoided. Liam said the creature had been here. They were getting close.
It had been raining and every so often the wind stirred the leaves and a heavy shower of drops fell from the trees above. Remy sat his horse, one hand gripping his sword. He was sweaty and shivering, scared, so scared that he was numb.
He glanced sideways, reassured to see Jaime at the head of the group alongside Mathieu. It was almost enough to make him smile, thinking of Jaime as a comforting presence. It was not so foolish. There would be few men not glad to have Jaime at their side in a fight. Remy had seen Jaime fight and there were few who could match him.
It was unfair to judge. Remy knew little of Jaime's story, but he knew enough to understand that one event had shaped his future. One failure. Jaime's life had been changed forever by Duke Hugo's death.
Remy could understand this; a foolish prank had shaped his own future. If he had returned to his lessons after delivering the message to Sieur Edouard, everything would be different. He would be a squire safe at Chamfort. Instead he was among a small group of men about to attack a manor house. A house where the shadow creature might be waiting. Of course it was not the same. Jaime had to live with Duke Hugo's death. But Remy had blood on his hands too. Simon, Father Peter, they would be alive but for him. He had just as much to answer for as Jaime.
He shivered and wondered why it was so hard to be brave. Was it something you could learn? Jaime was brave, some might say insanely so; Remy did not think him insane, but he had little to judge against. He had seen the knights at Chamfort spar. That had been about skill and pride as much as bravery. Knights were injured in practice but no one died.
He had seen the fighting at Debrauche. Sieur Edouard and Jaime; death had been close in that encounter. Watching them he had understood there was no place for fear only skill and courage. It was then he had realized he would not be a knight. Fear was too much a part of him. That did not change what he had to do. There must be other men who felt as he did and yet still did what they must to protect those they loved.
He had kept up his sword practice and he was glad of it now. It had been hard when he was on the road with only Jaime and Brother Liam. Jaime would not spar with him; he had laughed when Remy asked. Liam had less training than Remy, but he had at least been willing to offer himself as a partner. At Debrauche Remy had sparred with Quinn. And now he had plenty of partners in Bruno and the other men of the Compact.
The sword hilt felt cold and strange in his clammy hand. Despite the hours of practice and the skills learned at Chamfort, he did not think it would ever bring him comfort. He did his best to hide the fear; any sign of weakness would earn him Jaime's contempt, a prospect almost worse than his fear.
It had started to rain again. Drops fell intermittently through the leaves and the clouds had stolen the last of the light. Remy blinked water from his eyes and shifted in his saddle so he could see Matt and Jaime. Now it was near dark he hoped they would move soon, waiting was the worst part.
A horse nudged alongside his. Remy looked up to see Bruno's scarred face. The big man smiled and the scars twisted his face to a gruesome leer. "How are you doing, Remy?"
He shrugged. Bruno might look fearsome, but he was always kind and Remy did not feel he had to pretend with him. Bruno never made him feel ashamed or foolish. "Will it be long?" he asked.
"The scouts will be back soon," said Bruno.
There were armed men in the manor. That much they knew. Mathieu was keen to know more before they attacked. A local informer had told them about the manor, and Brother Liam's scrying confirmed that the shadow creature had been here, but he did not think it was there now. Even though their main purpose was to find the creature, Remy had been relieved to hear this. He kept that to himself.
There was a scuffle of movement at the front where Matt and Jaime were waiting. A few moments later a man pushed his way between the horses and came towards them. He waved to Bruno.
"They want you," he said.
With a quick smile for Remy, Bruno urged his horse through the crowd. Remy did not follow him. Jaime was at his worst, at his most impatient at moments like these and it was best to stay out of his way.
More time passed. Something was happening and Remy almost regretted not following Bruno. Eventually word filtered through. The manor had a drawbridge and it was raised. Jaime, Bruno and a couple of the Compact's men were going to scale the walls and lower the drawbridge. They would not attempt this until the manor had settled for the night and they had a better idea of how many men were on watch.
It was a long, damp wait. Mathieu did not want to move the men back in case they drew attention to themselves. It was worse, not knowing what was happening.
When the signal came, Remy was almost glad. The order came to dismount. The
horses were tethered and a couple of men left to watch them. Then the rest of the Compact's men left the cover of the trees and moved forward in single file. Mathieu was at the head of the column. They kept to a walk, moving slowly closer. Remy found the slow pace frustrating. Surely one of the sentries would see them.
He knew this desire for speed was foolish. It was dark. There was no moon. And even at a walk it was hard enough to move quietly over unfamiliar ground. Mathieu and the scouts were leading them along the easiest route to the manor's walls. It seemed to take forever, but they reached the shadow of the walls without the sentry raising the alarm.
The manor was surrounded by a wide moat. Remy wondered how Jaime and Bruno had crossed it; he shivered at the idea of swimming in the dark still water, not knowing what was lurking beneath the surface.
The pace increased as they headed for the gates. Remy guessed that Mathieu had received a signal. Jaime and Bruno had done their work. But as they approached the main gate he could see the drawbridge was still raised. As he watched it began to descend. For a moment he wondered why Jaime and Bruno had not lowered the drawbridge sooner. He realized when he heard the noise it made.
To Remy the creak of wood and the rattle of chains sounded loud enough to wake the dead. He realized how vulnerable Jaime, Bruno and the men with them inside the manor were at this moment. Even as he thought entered his head the silence was broken by warning shouts and running feet. Soon after, he heard the sound of sword play. The drawbridge passed halfway and cranked slowly down. Without thinking Remy pushed his way towards Mathieu.
The drawbridge dropped the last few feet. Mathieu was already running forward as it hit the ground. Remy ran at his heels. They were halfway across when there was a shout. Remy heard a rusty scream. Just beyond the first of the manor gates, an ancient portcullis crashed down, blocking their way.
Mathieu skidded to a halt, a hairsbreadth from being crushed by the spikes on the wood and steel barred gate.
Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3) Page 96
