Two fighters circled one another, each looking for an opening to exploit. The courtiers in the hall watched in rapt silence. Such deference was only appropriate, with a life hanging in the balance.
Many of them seem to be uncertain as to whose life is about to end, thought Duc Baudouin le Dauphin, Prince of the Blood.
It was an amusing thought. It was always more satisfying this way, when they didn’t know what was coming.
Sir Émile Beaufort was the larger of the dueling pair. He was clad in polished plate armor, fitted close to his frame. The latest from the masterful smiths in Aubade, and worth a small keep by itself. Such armor was a luxury for any chevalier. Beaufort had won it at the Tournament of the Crimson Rose, two springs past.
I remember it well. It had been many years since Baudouin had participated in a tournament personally, but they were always an entertaining diversion. He’d lost a sizable purse when Beaufort unexpectedly won the day.
The second fighter might have looked out of place, to an outsider. But we are not so far from civilization, out here on the Isle of Turaine. They should know my Sophie, by reputation alone. That anyone wagered on Beaufort is a travesty. Baudouin was mildly annoyed by the insolence, but he knew it would make what came next that much sweeter.
Sophie, the second duelist, was shorter than Sir Beaufort and comparatively slender. She was tall and strong, for a woman, but physically Beaufort had many clear advantages. Compared to his fitted plate, she wore only a mail hauberk. Admittedly, it was mail forged of the finest Loranette steel, but even so. She wore no helm at all, her short brown hair hanging just past her ears.
Beaufort was equipped with blade and shield, while the woman carried only a blade. A longsword, forged of flawless Loranette steel, and tapered to a point so narrow and fine that any lesser metal could not have held it.
The courts of Lorraine called that blade the Needle, and used the same appellation for the woman that carried it.
Sophie held her Needle in a casual grip, point oriented low and to her right. She paced around Beaufort with languid grace, studying him. Beaufort’s movements, by contrast, were uneasy. He paced around quickly, as if trying to move into Sophie’s left side.
He suddenly lunged forward, shield up, striking for Sophie’s left arm. She reacted with fluid movements, her Needle diverting the strike and thrusting forward to kiss Beaufort’s cheek. Beaufort wore only an open-faced helm—strikes to the face were considered unseemly. Beaufort hissed in pain and backstepped.
Sophie’s blow was a shallow one, opening little more than a small cut along Beaufort’s cheekbone. Drips of red blood ran down his jaw, staining the trimmed beard on his chin. A few murmurs rippled through the noble audience. If the duel had been to the blood, Sophie would have won already.
That’s why she never accepts duels to the first blood any longer, Baudouin thought. They are over too fast, with no time to savor the experience. He grinned. He relished Sophie’s victories nearly as much as she did.
“She really is as quick as they say, isn’t she your grace?” asked Comte Lecuyer. “That Needle of yours.”
“Faster,” Baudouin said, without looking away from the duel. “There are none her equal.”
Sophie continued to circle Beaufort, but he held his ground this time. He watched her warily. After at least twenty seconds of silence, he grunted and charged for her again.
This was more a rush than a lunge. Sophie pivoted on her feet, twirling around him as if they were dancing in a ballroom. As she passed him, her Needle darted around the shield and grated against the plate near Beaufort’s left shoulder.
They separated, and Sophie lowered her sword again. She wore a cocky smile as she rolled her head on her shoulders, as if stretching. Beaufort was slow to get back into a guard position, and his breaths came heavy.
“She will have a devil of a time with that armor,” Lecuyer said. “Fast or not.”
“No she won’t,” Baudouin said. “Look at him. His shield is already dipping.”
Beaufort’s left arm was losing strength. It took only a moment for Baudouin to spot the obvious, though he expected most of the nobles did not see it yet. More blood, leaking out from the joints where the plate joined around his shoulder. It dripped down the plate on his upper arm in steady rivulets.
Beaufort went for her again, and again she danced around him. This time she pricked him near the elbow of his sword arm. He grunted in pain, and the crowd’s murmurs grew louder and more concerned. Sophie didn’t wait for Beaufort to initiate their next exchange—she lunged for him instead. She bound his blade to the side, stepping inside his guard. He tried to slam the edge of his shield into her, but she dodged that as well. She gripped her long Needle by the blade, levering it down.
When they separated, his left leg faltered and more blood trickled out between the carefully fitted plates. He swayed on his feet. Sophie went in and out of his reach then, dodging his swings and pinking him every time.
Some of the crowd had grown upset, to see a respected knight embarrassed so soundly. Baudouin loved this moment… when reality had dawned on them now, too late. They could do nothing but watch and squirm. Baudouin rarely felt so alive and invigorated as he did in moments like this.
“Yield!” Beaufort finally cried. He was bleeding from close to a dozen wounds. A cut on his eyebrow had stained most of his face red and forced one eye closed. “Yield! Mercy!”
All eyes fell on Baudouin. Even Sophie watched him expectantly, though she had to know how this would go.
“The duel was to the death,” Baudouin said loudly. “Now you wish to live? Assassin, you called me. Blackhearted murderer. You wish to ask mercy of such a man? Or do you recant your lies?”
“Yes.” Beaufort’s voice was ragged. Exhausted. Frightened. Beneath the brow of his helm and the blood staining his face, Baudouin saw the terror in his eyes. “I—I recant it all! Mercy. Please.”
“Very well,” Baudouin said. “Let it never be said I am not merciful. Sophie, darling. End it.”
Sophie nodded. She stepped closer to Beaufort. He watched her with uncertainty, still trying to hold up a guard position. It was a wise decision, but it did not avail him. Sophie beat his sword off the line and thrust the Needle through the apple of this throat.
Sir Émile Beaufort’s eyes widened as he crumpled to his knees, gurgling. He tried to speak, but only blood came out. It poured down the front of his breastplate, and a moment later he toppled over.
The court was deathly silent. The sound of fear. The sound of respect. Baudouin drank it in. He could have listened to that sound for hours. Unfortunately, the murmurs started up again quickly.
Sophie drew out a handkerchief and carefully wiped the blood from her Needle before sheathing it. Baudouin beckoned her to him, and she heeded his call. When she reached him, she leaned in dutifully. He kissed her, relishing the softness of her lips.
“Well done,” he said.
She nodded.
“Go to my chambers and be ready for me,” he commanded. “I will join you shortly.”
The corner of Sophie’s mouth twitched. “Yes, father,” she said.
It was good that she did not argue. Not with so many nobles in earshot. Sometimes she did anyway, but usually not after a good duel. Baudouin knew her passions would be just as excited as his own, after such a display. The thrill of battle, of the kill, was something they shared.
Sophie excused herself from the hall. Only Comte Lecuyer was close enough to have heard their exchange, and he did not comment. He was a toady, a social-climber that had invited Baudouin here to get in his good graces. It’s always good to test them. See just how badly they want it.
Lecuyer watched him patiently. He wanted it very badly.
“I hope you enjoyed the entertainment, Comte Lecuyer,” Baudouin said.
Lecuyer hesitated. He raised a goblet and took a swallow of wine. Then he smiled. “Yes, of course, your grace. The Duc’s Needle knows how to put on a fine show indeed.”
“It was kind of Sir Beaufort to grant us the opportunity,” Baudouin observed. “Though I do wish he’d done so without spreading such perfidious lies about me and the late Comte Beaufort.”
Lecuyer nodded. “Of course, your grace. Have you—have you had a chance to think on what I asked you earlier?”
Baudouin frowned. He still felt his pulse pounding, and he was still achingly hard. He wanted to go to Sophie before the blood lust had faded. “What?” he said, not bothering to hide his annoyance. “That business with DuChamps, you mean?”
Lecuyer nodded. “Yes, Duc Baudouin. Marquis DuChamps. If you would only back me, I—”
“DuChamps,” Baudouin interrupted. “Why do I recognize the name? He’s an island lord. I don’t care about island lords.”
Lecuyer—an island lord—bore the insult without comment. “He is a noble of some substance, your grace,” he said. “His holdings have only grown. And he is—”
“The Raven of Bourgogne.”
The voice that interrupted was melodious, and reignited Baudouin’s blood. Even after all this time, she is still irresistible.
He turned to face the speaker. Marie’s beauty never disappointed. Her hair was long and radiant, her lips full and red, her elegant dress clinging to her perfect figure. Marie was called the Rose in much the same way men called her sister the Needle, and for a similarly apropos reason: She was as beautiful and delicate as the finest rose in all the Isles.
And if you crossed her, she had thorns.
It was not for nothing that the folk of Lorraine called all of Baudouin’s bastard children Monsters, though never to his face. He took the frightful title as a sign of the utmost respect.
He realized Marie must have finished speaking with the other lords already. Baudouin had expected her to be at them for at least another half of an hour, but she always surprised him. He beckoned her closer, and she leaned in for a kiss.
Her lips tasted sweet. “Father,” she said.
“The Raven of Bourgogne,” Baudouin repeated her words. “That name I recall. His schemes won the Battle of Chalon, and the Panaôn Crossing, among others. He is Marquis DuChamps?”
Marie shook her head. “His younger brother. The Raven is the adoptive second son of the late Marquis DuChamps.”
Baudouin frowned. “Ah,” he said. He glanced back at Lecuyer, who looked even more uncomfortable than he had earlier. “There’s something. The Raven of Bourgogne is a cunning man by all accounts. And adopted no less? Could you not entice him to succeed his elder brother?”
Lecuyer opened his mouth to reply, but Marie spoke first. “I doubt it, father,” she said. “By all accounts the DuChamps brothers are very close. The Raven is cunning and extremely ambitious—but very loyal to his kin, even though they do not share blood.”
“Feh,” Baudouin sighed, shrugging. “Marie. Stay and speak with Comte Lecuyer, will you? Perhaps you can give him some advice. Sophie is waiting for me.”
Marie smiled faintly. “Apologies, father, but I came to speak with you. I wished to find you before you left with Sophie.”
She knows me too well, Baudouin thought to himself. He had trained his eldest daughter in the arts of courtly intrigue, and many other arts as well so that she might better serve him. But it still bothered Baudouin on the occasions when Marie used those same skills against him.
“Very well,” he said. “What is it?”
“There is a guest here at Comte Lecuyer’s court,” Marie said. “That I think you should meet.”
Baudouin’s lip curled in a grimace. “Now, Marie?”
“Father,” Marie said. “Have you heard the recent news out of Caedia?”
He had not. Caedia may be Lorraine’s closest neighbor across the sea, but the land was still Middish. They were a bunch of backwards dirt-farmers and sheep-fuckers.
“What is it now?” Baudouin asked.
“War,” Marie said.
Baudouin frowned, and stroked the narrow point of his goatee. War with Caedia was a never-ending and ill-fated thing. Lorraine had tried numerous times over the years to establish a better foothold in the Midlands by way of Caedia, but Caedians were intractable. Every acre had to be bought in blood, and sooner or later the ground taken would be lost.
Baudouin did not understand the appeal. Lorraine was the richer land. Better soil, better weather, with grand cathedrals, gleaming knights, and sumptuous banquets. In his youth he had joined in a war against Caedia, and little of the promised riches and glory had been seen. Wars against out-of-favor Loranette nobility tended to be much more rewarding.
“We have gone to war with Caedia?” he asked. “Impossible. I would have heard that.”
Marie shook her head. “No, not us.”
Baudouin sighed. “Then why shall we care, beloved daughter? The Middish are always squabbling amongst themselves. It will not benefit us—they band together too quickly when someone else comes on the scene.”
“Not other Middish either, father,” Marie said. She smiled brightly. “That’s the news, you see? They’re being invaded by a host of Svards, out of the far north. A huge fleet of them.”
That is interesting, Baudouin had to admit. He pondered Marie’s words for a moment. An invasion of barbarians might unite the Midlands, if it dragged on long enough. But if the horde was of sufficient size, it could throw a considerable region into disarray. And with such disarray could come opportunity, he thought.
“I see,” he said. “Perhaps… you were right to bring this to me.”
Marie smiled. “Thank you, father.”
She was doing it again. Speaking to him the way she spoke to the witless lords Baudouin sent her to charm and plot against. She was manipulating him. He would need to remind her who was master and who was servant, and soon.
“Well?” he prompted. “You wished for me to meet someone, yes? Let’s get on with it.”
“Certainly, father. Will you join us, Comte Lecuyer?”
“Yes, of course,” Lecuyer said. “I think I know of whom you speak—Marchand’s guest? But yes. Come.”
Lecuyer ended up taking the lead as they walked towards a cluster of nobles. As they walked, Baudouin leaned close to his eldest daughter and whispered in her ear.
“When this is done, go to my chambers,” he commanded. “You’ve ruined the moment—Sophie will need encouragement.”
“Of course, father,” Marie said, her tone and expression betraying nothing but dutiful obedience and devotion.
Baudouin felt annoyed by that. His younger daughters still feared him, but Marie had mastered her emotions years ago. If she feared him now, she hid it well—and even the moments she showed it, he suspected her of doing so intentionally. To please him. If there was one thing his Little Monsters were good at, it was pleasing him.
The crowd parted as Baudouin arrived. Such was proper in the presence of any Duc amongst lesser nobility, much less a Prince of the Blood. In the center of the crowd had been a noble Baudouin recognized.
The Marquis Nicodeme Marchand, a flamboyant man well-known for his ambition, and for his daring exploits on the battlefield. Word was Marchand often ran his vassals as a mercenary company in the Midlands, fattening his coffers with spoils and honing the skills of his chevaliers and men-at-arms. He was dressed in tailored finery, and his sword’s hilt was plated in gold and studded with small gems.
“Duc Baudouin!” Marchand said, grinning. “A great honor, for the blood of the Dauphin to grace us.”
“Marquis Marchand,” Baudouin said. “And who is this?”
The other man at the center of the crowd was standing at Marchand’s side. He stood stiffly, uncomfortable. Baudouin understood why he might feel so, since he looked entirely out of place in a Loranette court.
He was a northerner, of that much Baudouin was immediately sure. He was tall, taller than most of the men around them. His shoulders were as broad as a chevalier’s. His hair was long and pale blond, hanging around his head in braided locks woven with some sort of dark fabric. He had a full beard, not the trimmed style as was fashionable in Lorraine. It was braided much like his hair, hanging several inches down his chest.
He wore mail and thick woolen garb, and a sword hung from his hip. Even the sword looked unusual—a smaller grip than was common in Lorraine, with a flared oblong pommel and rounded crossguard that looked like it would cradle his hand closely.
No wonder the crowd had been so intrigued by him. Baudouin could only assume he would have noticed the strange barbarian sooner had Sir Beaufort not caused such a distraction so soon after he arrived.
“Ah, yes of course,” Marchand said. “Forgive me, your grace. This is Ivar. He is—”
“I am Ivar, son of Adelbirk,” the man said. His Loranette was surprisingly passable, albeit with an ugly accent. Still, quite good for a savage. “Jarl of Nagelborg, priest of Vlar, and ambassador for the Taerbjornsen, King of Kings.”
Even barbarians love their titles, Baudouin thought, amused. “And why have you come to Lorraine, Ivar?”
The Svard smiled. It was a hungry smile, full of ambition and danger. Baudouin knew such smiles well. He trusted them considerably more than those that seemed to be merely friendly.
“I have come for you, Duc Baudouin,” Ivar spoke slowly, choosing each word with care. “I have come to make you an offer.”
Beside him, Baudouin saw Marie smirk. Perhaps this was worthwhile after all, he admitted, if only to himself.
Baudouin nodded to the barbarian. “Very well,” he said. “I’m listening.”