“Oh, no,” gasped Adele. “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 Adele, her eyes brimming.
Even though Liaze gritted her teeth she reached out and took Adele’s hand. After a moment she said, “As Leon asked in his letter, are there yet men in the manor whom you can trust?”
Adele 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-” Adele 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 Adele 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.”
Adele’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 Adele and Liaze smiling behind their napkins.
That moonless darktide, in the candlemarks ere mid of night, from the parapets of the Blue Chateau, 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, Leon 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
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-”
