“As am I, Armsmaster,” said Luc, his hand on the hilt of his sword. “As am I.”
40
Liaze 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!”
Gustave!
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. Adele 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 Adele 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 Chateau Bleu dans le Lac de la Rose et Gardien de la Cle, 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 chateau and said, “Bah! Anyone can call himself Luc, yet I would have proof.”
A rustle went through the assembly.
“I vouch for him,” cried Leon, his voice ringing to the battlements.
“Another pretender, I say,” shouted Guillaume to those same battlements.
“Non!” called Adele, now standing on the steps as well, Liaze at her side. “This man I know, as do some of you: he is Armsmaster Leon, ever loyal to Chateau Bleu.”
Again a murmur rustled through the gathering.
“Leon is a murderer,” cried Guillaume, “for he slew Franck and fled for his own life.”
“Liar, assassin-sender,” gritted Leon, “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 Chateau 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 pere’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.
Leon 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 Adele.
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.”
Leon 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 Adele 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.
On the steps, Gustave laughed in glee, for certainly his own sire would take the measure of this boy who would think to sit on the throne instead of Gustave himself when his father became a marquis or duke or even higher.
And down in the courtyard, Guillaume attacked, battering at Luc’s blade, and the vicomte laughed and cried out, “You’re losing, boy! ”
Luc smiled grimly and said, “I think I’ve learned enough of your manner of swordplay,” and in a wink of an eye, Luc riposted, and a gash opened on Guillaume’s wrist, there between gauntlet and chain, blood to flow freely.
Rage flashed across Guillaume’s face, but now it was Luc who pressed the attack, his blade a blur, for he was quicker than Guillaume, though the vicomte was marginally stronger.
Clang!.. Dring!.. Luc drove Guillaume back and back, and another gash opened, this one across Guillaume’s right cheek, deep and gushing, teeth showing through.
Guillaume’s eyes flew wide in fear. He tried to disengage, but could not. He circled about and risked a glance at the ramparts. “Vincent!” he cried.
An arrow flashed through the air, and a man on the walls, nocked bow in hand, tumbled down to the flagstones below, slain by Leon’s shaft.
On the steps Gustave reached for his dagger, but of a sudden, from behind, someone grabbed his hair and jerked his head back, and a long-knife was at his throat, and Liaze hissed, “Draw it and you die.”
Elsewhere, throughout the courtyard, other men held knives and daggers upon Guillaume’s henchmen.
And in the center of the circle, Luc spitted Guillaume, the lad’s thrust so hard the blade pierced all the way through chain and gut and spine.
Guillaume looked down in disbelief.
“To the death, you demanded,” said Luc, “and to the death it is,” and he wrenched his sword free.
And Guillaume fell dead to the stone.
In that moment a rooster crowed, and Twk, upon the ramparts, led the gathering in a cheer, joy filling the courtyard for all but Guillaume’s own men.