Once Upon an Autumn Eve (37 page)

They stepped away from one another, and Adèle asked, “Tea, Cousin?”

“Please,” replied Liaze, resuming her seat. “For my attendants, too.”

“And a few crumbs for Jester, if you will,” said Twk, dismounting.

“What brings you to the Blue Château?” asked Adèle, as she poured and served.

“I thought to catch up on old times,” said Liaze, looking at Gwyd and then Twk and frowning and touching a finger to her lips then glancing toward the same wall the comtesse had indicated.

“And how is your père?” asked Adèle.

“He is well,” said Liaze. “Queen Saissa, also. They send their greetings.”

Of a sudden the door opened, and a tall man with dark hair and dark eyes entered the chamber. Adèle stood and said, “Liaze, this is my husband Guillaume. Guillaume, Princess Liaze.”

Liaze held out a hand, and Guillaume took it and bent over and kissed her fingers. “Ah, Adèle, you did not tell me you had so lovely a cousin, a princess, no less, a daughter of King Valeray.”

“Oh, didn’t I?” asked Adèle innocently.

“Non,” said Guillaume, a bit sharply. He turned to Liaze, a predatory smile on his features. “Perhaps, my lady, one day you will introduce me to your sire. I am certain that he and I have much in common.”

Liaze smiled and said, “One day I hope to introduce you to him I hold most dear.”

Guillaume smiled and nodded and said, “We must speak of this at dinner. But for now, I have pressing matters, and you and Adèle must have much catching up to do. If you will excuse me?”

Liaze nodded in acquiescence, and the vicomte stepped away.

When the door shut behind Guillaume, Liaze handed Adèle the letter from Léon and the note from Luc. And the princess kept up a running patter of inconsequential things, as Adèle read Léon’s words and then Luc’s. The comtesse pressed the note from Luc to her heart, and, tears in her eyes, looked at Liaze. And she carefully folded the note and letter and slipped them into her gown, and then became engaged in the chitchat for a candlemark or so, she and Liaze making up a history as they went. Gwyd and Twk merely listened, the Pixie drinking tea from a thimble, and Jester continuing to peck at crumbs tossed to him by the comtesse.

Finally Adèle said, “Would you like to see my gardens? The flowers are lovely at this time of the season, especially the roses.”

“Oh, please, let’s do,” said Liaze.

They stood and Twk hopped aboard Jester, and together they went from the chamber and down several halls to come to an outside door, where they stepped into a sunlit garden, flowers abloom. A small flagstone area lay in the middle of the plot, with a fountain centered and a bench at hand for resting. And as they moved toward the bench, “Eyes are watching,” said Adèle, “but they cannot hear.”

“Come, we will take our rest, and I’ll have Twk and Jester put on a show,” said Liaze.

“Right,” said the Pixie. “Jester has always wanted to fly, we’ll give it a go.”

Liaze and Adèle took seat on the bench, and Gwyd lifted Jester and Twk to the rim of the fountain.

Twk glanced at Liaze and nodded, and he whispered a word to Jester, and the rooster crowed and then took off flapping madly, Twk yet aboard the now-squawking bird.

And as the chicken fluttered and yawped, Liaze and Adèle looked on and laughed, but their converse was anything but humorous.

Liaze said, “Luc has come to claim his birthright.”

“He is near, you say?” asked Adèle.

“Both Luc and Léon. They are with the Widow Dorothée.”

“If he’s come to claim his demesne, Guillaume will not go willingly,” said Adèle.

“Then Luc will challenge him to trial by combat.”

“Oh, no,” gasped Adèle. “Guillaume is a mighty fighter.”

“You have not seen Luc,” said Liaze. “He is perhaps the finest champion in all of Faery.”

“Oh, Liaze, I would give almost anything to be rid of Guillaume, but not my son.”

“You cannot flee?” asked Liaze, pointing as Twk and Jester ran across the garden, the chicken yet squawking, Gwyd hooting behind.

“I am a prisoner in my own house,” said the comtesse. “And, and . . .” Her words fell silent.

“And what?” asked Liaze.

“And he forces himself upon me,” said Adèle, her eyes brimming.

Even though Liaze gritted her teeth she reached out and took Adèle’s hand. After a moment she said, “As Léon asked in his letter, are there yet men in the manor whom you can trust?”

Adèle took a deep breath. “Some.”

“Can you put them on the gate and the walls tomorrow morning?”

“Tomorrow morning?”

“Oui, for that’s when Luc will come.”

“I, I—” Adèle took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “Oui, I will have them in place as the morning guard.”

“Bon!” said Liaze.

That evening Liaze, in a borrowed gown, took dinner with Guillaume and Adèle and Gustave, Guillaume’s son, a beefy man, shorter than his sire and heftier. Gustave sat across from Liaze, a barely concealed leer upon his lips. And it was apparent Guillaume intended to make a match of these two: after all, having a princess as a daughter-in-law would certainly boost his career toward the dukedom he so desired.

But Liaze deftly deflected every attempt, and finally Guillaume asked, “Are you betrothed, my lady?”

“Oui, I am,” said Liaze. She looked across at Guillaume’s son. “You are what, Gustave, two or three summers past your majority?”

Gustave, ire on his face, jerked a nod her way.

“Well, the splendid man I am betrothed to just came into his majority a few moons ago.”

Adèle’s eyes widened at this revelation, but she said nought.

“And who is he?” asked Guillaume.

“A comte,” said Liaze.

“A comte?” said Guillaume. “Who?”

“Oh, Vicount Guillaume, the banns are not yet posted, for I would first have my sire give his approval, and so I will not yet tell my truelove’s name.”

“Ah, then,” said Guillaume, casting a significant glance at Gustave, “you are not yet formally betrothed, for a king must be notified and the banns nailed up before it is official.”

“Oui,” said Liaze. “Still, my heart belongs to my lover.”

“Your lover?” said Gustave.

“Oui, my lover.”

The rest of the dinner went poorly, with Gustave slamming down his tableware and storming out, leaving Guillaume enraged by his son’s actions, and Adèle and Liaze smiling behind their napkins.

 

That moonless darktide, in the candlemarks ere mid of night, from the parapets of the Blue Château, a rooster crowed. Odd, this was, or so thought the inhabitants of the manor, for it was not to announce the coming of dawn, nor was it within the daylight marks; instead, the call came in the mid of darkness when only the stars shone down, and that was odd indeed. And the cock’s crow echoed from the rouge cliffs and resounded o’er the crystal waters of the Lake of the Rose, and on a distant shore, Léon turned to Luc and said, “All is ready, my comte.”

“As am I, Armsmaster,” said Luc, his hand on the hilt of his sword. “As am I.”

40

L
iaze did not sleep well that night, for she wanted nothing more than to be held in Luc’s arms, or to be holding him in hers. And it did not help that sometime after mid of night footsteps came stumbling down the hallway outside her door, their owner to stop and pause and pound on the panel and demand entrance.

“Let me in, wench!”

Liaze drew her long-knife from its sheath.

“I said let me in!”

The latch rattled, but the door was securely locked, with a chair jammed under the handle as well.

Liaze stood and padded to the door and stood to one side and waited, her blade ready.

Bam! . . . Bam! . . . Bam!
Gustave again hammered on the door.

Of a sudden, Liaze heard a loud retching, as of someone—Gustave—vomiting, a faint splashing against the floor.

Yet retching, he stumbled away.

Liaze returned to her bed.

She did not sheathe her knife the rest of that eve.

 

The next morning, the princess in her leathers and the comtesse in a gown took a constitutional walk on the battlements, the comtesse nodding to each of the men as she passed by, they touching the brims of their helms in return.

And then across the causeway came riding two clean-shaven men, a youth and a veteran, the youth on a black horse, the veteran on a grey. Adèle caught her breath and said, “How like his sire looks my son.”

The youth and the veteran paused at the towers, yet what they said neither Liaze nor Adèle could hear. But when they came to the main gate there was no question as to their words, for when they were asked their business, the youth’s voice rang out: “I am Comte Luc du Château Bleu dans le Lac de la Rose et Gardien de la Clé, and I have come to claim my heritage.”

 

Into the courtyard they rode, the comte and his armsmaster, and members of the household gathered even as someone ran to alert Guillaume.

When informed of this claimant, Vicomte Guillaume came to the steps of the château and said, “Bah! Anyone can call himself Luc, yet I would have proof.”

A rustle went through the assembly.

“I vouch for him,” cried Léon, his voice ringing to the battlements.

“Another pretender, I say,” shouted Guillaume to those same battlements.

“Non!” called Adèle, now standing on the steps as well, Liaze at her side. “This man I know, as do some of you: he is Armsmaster Léon, ever loyal to Château Bleu.”

Again a murmur rustled through the gathering.

“Léon is a murderer,” cried Guillaume, “for he slew Franck and fled for his own life.”

“Liar, assassin-sender,” gritted Léon, “you dispatched Franck to kill the babe who stood in your way. But I slew Franck ere he could carry out your vile plan, Guillaume, and I saved the lad for the day when he would reach his majority and the day he would win his spurs. And this I say: he has reached his majority and has won his spurs, and now he has come to cast you down, usurper, and take his rightful place.”

A swell of noise muttered through the crowd, and Luc threw up a hand to quell it. When silence fell, he said, “You want proof?” Luc reached under his collar and drew forth the amulet, the metal gleaming argent in the sun, the gemstone sparkling blue. “Here is the sigil of Château Blu, the amulet of the rightful comte. Here is the token my father bestowed on me the day he rode to war, only to return on his own shield.” Guillaume’s eyes widened at the sight of the token, but Luc spoke on: “You were there on the battlefield, Vicomte Guillaume, and my armsmaster tells me you fought by my père’s side, but I think more likely, given the man you are, ’twas you who dealt my sire the fatal blow.”

Guillaume’s face flashed with guilt and then rage, “Why you little—”

“Vicomte Guillaume, since you dispute my claim, I challenge you to a trial of arms.”

Ooo . . .
breathed the gathering, for this rash youth had flung his gauntlet down before one of the most feared fighters in the realm.

“Ha!” cried Guillaume. “You are a fool,
boy.
”

In moments, Guillaume’s arms and armor were delivered to him, and he spoke to Gustave and a handful of men, his words too quiet for Liaze to hear.

She turned to slip away, only to find Gwyd standing on the landing behind, her bow and quiver and long-knife in hand. “Shush!” snapped Gwyd. “Thank me not, Princess, f’r I wouldna like t’leave y’r service f’r the nonce, though I will one day, when this be over, go back t’my Laird Duncan.”

Quickly, Liaze strung her bow, and she strapped on her long-knife, then she turned her attention to the forecourt once more.

Luc had dismounted.

And, sword drawn, he faced Guillaume, the vicomte’s sword in hand as well.

And the crowd had moved back to form a great circle.

Léon stood off to one side, his bow in hand, an arrow in his grasp, though it was not nocked.

Gustave came to stand on the steps, two or three down from Liaze and Adèle.

A quiet fell.

“To first blood?” asked Luc.

“Ha! First blood? Non. We fight to the death,
boy,
for you have called me a murderer.”

Léon cried out, “And I called you a liar and a usurper and a sender of assassins.”

“Pah! I will deal with you after I have taken care of this fool,” said Guillaume—

—And without warning he attacked.

Shang!
Blades met, bronze on bronze, and Luc was driven back before the assault, and Adèle cried out in fear.

Ching! . . . Shang! . . .
Guillaume pressed the fight, ever driving Luc hindward, the youth blocking and parrying and slipping the vicomte’s blade down and away as the circle yielded before them.