Claire Delacroix (35 page)

“I wager you have learned a new trick or two yourself. And you would have had to, if you intended to best me. ’Tis no longer possible for you to simply grow faster than me.” They shared a smile, then Amaury sobered. “Why did you not speak to Father at Ceinn-beithe?”

Bayard looked away. “’Twas not fitting.”

“Not fitting to address your father after five years apart?”

Bayard eyed his brother again. Amaury appeared so young to him, so innocent, so unaware of all the world had to offer. He had been sheltered beneath his father’s arm. ’Twas not a bad thing, for he had the confidence of a man certain of his advantage.

But ’twas a false perception, for he had never been tested and Bayard feared what would happen if ever Amaury was tested as he had been. Bayard had tasted death himself more than once after his departure from Villonne, and knew that it had only been the folly of inexperience that nigh cost him his life. He could never explain to Amaury the fateful price of affection. Indeed, the greatest favor he could do his family would be to turn them aside, to spurn them.

For he had always been fortunate - but Amaury had never been so blessed as Bayard. ’Twas Amaury who nicked himself, Amaury who was caught in the rain, Amaury who fell on a step that had been loose for years.

’Twas Amaury whom Bayard had always protected, as an older brother should. Perhaps ’twas that realization which made Bayard say more than might have been his plan.

* * *

Chapter Fourteen

“’Twas not fitting to continue an unfinished argument before a company of friends and family,” Bayard said crisply. “And truly, we could not have begun again without finishing what was left unfinished. No doubt we both have found more arguments to make in favor of our own side. ’Twas not the reason we were gathered, and to begin such a dispute would have been an abuse of our host’s hospitality.”

Silence stretched between them. On impulse, Bayard drew his sword and lifted it toward his brother. He smiled. “Come, Amaury. Show me what you have learned these five years past. Show me how much more difficult you are to defeat.”

A familiar light glinted in Amaury’s eyes and he drew his own blade with grace. “
En garde
,” he murmured and their blades clashed between them.

Amaury was indeed stronger and quicker, Bayard noted with pleasure, but not as quick as he. He imagined that his brother had practiced with an indulgent tutor and deliberately made an unpredictable move.

His blade sang through the air and he nicked Amaury’s tabard. His brother jumped back in alarm. To his credit, Amaury lunged back into the fray. The ring of the blades attracted observers, including Bayard’s errant squires.

From the rumpled and flushed look of them, he knew where, or at least with whom, they had been. ’Twas galling that Bayard should be the only celibate in this hall.

And by his own choice. Truth be told, there was not a wench in this hall who tempted him though several had tried. Had Esmeraude and her passionate response spoiled him for any other woman?

No wonder he was so intent upon winning her! He parried Amaury’s blow and struck harder in retaliation.

“Father was wounded by your decision, I know it,” Amaury insisted, his breath coming quickly. “He misses you, though he will not hear your name in the hall of Villonne.”

“If ’twere of such import to him, then he might have spoken first to me.” Bayard defended himself against a much more forceful thrust and grinned when he cast off the weight of Amaury’s blade.

His brother showed definite promise.

“You are the son! ’Tis your duty to show honor to your sire. ’Tis your responsibility to speak first to him, especially as ’twas you who fled his hall.”

Bayard shook his head. “’Tis true that I fled my father’s hall with no more than my hauberk, my sword, and my steed. Did he not tell you why?” He caught Amaury’s chemise with the tip of his blade in a sudden move that his brother clearly did not anticipate. The strike left a long gash in the linen and a thin line of red along Amaury’s flesh. Those gathered to watch gasped and the brothers’ gazes met.

Aye, Amaury knew that Bayard could have sorely injured him.

“Because you would not heed him,” Amaury retorted.

Bayard snorted at this variant of the truth. “’Tis true enough, though only part of the tale. I did not heed him because he would have sheltered me, as he has sheltered you.”

“I...”

Bayard lunged again and left a cut in Amaury’s tabard this time, directly over his chest. Amaury jumped back in alarm, eyed the gash, then lunged at Bayard again. Their blades clashed time and time again as they fought with greater vigor.

“When a man earns his spurs, Amaury, he assumes the responsibility of knighthood. He can only win that status if he has proven himself to be worthy of it. He must be skilled with his weaponry but he must also have the resolve of a man to do what is just and to see a matter finished.”

“I know this,” Amaury interjected impatiently, punctuating his claim with a swift strike. “I am a knight.”

Bayard darted out of harm’s way, though his brother’s blade glanced off his hand. “Aye, but your father, my father, chooses to ignore this fact. He treats you yet as a child, just as he would have treated me as a child.”

“He is protective!”

“He is a fool.” Bayard halted his assault for a moment to consider his brother. “I understand that he was forced to make war too young, but in this matter, he corrects his own experience overmuch.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like all men, our father grows older, yet his refusal to let his son be a man means that all he yet holds can be lost upon his demise. What do you know of waging war? What do you know of defending what is your own? What do you know of treachery and intrigue and the machinations of greed? What have you learned of swordplay, when your opponent is not a tutor intent upon letting the son of his lord and suzerain win?”

Amaury dove forward, taking advantage of Bayard’s pause. Bayard laughed and parried his blow with less ease than before. “Better!” he cried and his brother’s smile flashed. “If Father died - and I by no means wish for him to do so - you would take the reins of Villonne as its lord. If another neighbor attacked Mother, as one did seven years past, how would you retrieve her?”

Their blades clashed between the two of them and Bayard leaned closer, holding his brother’s gaze even as he held the weight of his sword. “If I came with an army to wrest Villonne from you, would you know what to do to stop me?”

Amaury lowered his blade, clearly shaken by the prospect, and stepped back. His response could be read in the fear flickering in his eyes. “Would you do as much?”

“Nay, I have no desire for Villonne.” Bayard gave his brother a minute pause to be relieved, before he continued. “Others will, though, Amaury, others with less honor than me. ’Twill be both your prize and your burden to defend.”

“I am certain that Father has considered as much and means to grant me experience when I have need of it.”

“No man knows when he will die, Amaury.” Bayard shook his head. “What if Villonne were assaulted and Father were killed in the defense of it? You would have to decide, over his fallen body, what to do. You would have to make a strategic choice, and that with no time to consider your choice and with grief coursing through your veins.”

Amaury opened his mouth and closed it again.

“Could you do it?”

“I pray I shall not have to.”

Bayard shook his head, then lifted his blade once more. Their swords clashed with greater vigor and he felt the chill of the air so keenly that he knew his chemise was soaked with perspiration. “Prayers have their place, but experience is a better partner in war. You are a man yet you stand on the cusp of responsibility without the skills to assume it. Though I appreciate that Father wished to protect us from the rigors of his own early years as a knight, I fear he has been overzealous.”

“’Tis disloyal to say as much.” Amaury swiped at Bayard’s knees.

“Is it?” Bayard leapt aside, then thrust before his brother had gained control of his blade once more. He made another slash in Amaury’s tabard, pulling back on the blade so that he drew no blood.

Amaury stared down at the gaping cloth and swallowed.

“And I do not even have a desire to kill you,” Bayard muttered. “Do you always say what Father would have you say? Do you always believe what he tells you to believe? His intent is not malicious, but ’tis damaging all the same. Do you desire aught, Amaury, independent of what Father would desire for you?”

“I desire Villonne and a wife, a happy household like our own.”

“And so you are here, at Father’s dictate, to win the bride he has chosen for you.”

Amaury bridled at this. “He merely suggested ’twas a good idea. He does not tell me what to do!”

Bayard did not reply to that, for he knew that his father had a talent for sounding so reasonable that ’twas impossible to argue with him without sounding like a fool. The pair battled anew, both of them breathing heavily as they circled and their blades clanged.

Then Bayard struck a ringing blow upon his brother’s sword, driving the blade from Amaury’s hand. It fell heavily to the ground and Amaury reached for his knife.

But Bayard rested his blade upon his brother’s neck. Amaury froze. He looked up, fear in his eyes, and Bayard realized that his point had finally been made. The group assembled fell silent, clearly uncertain of what Bayard would do.

“Recognize, Amaury, that Father was summoned to just such a bride quest as this by his own father, yet he refused to participate.” Bayard took a deep breath. “Father spurned all that his father would have granted him, that he might win the heart of our mother. What came to his hand, what he would bequeath to you now, was what he won through his own skill. He did not desire what would be merely granted to him.”

“If you are suggesting that Father is wrong-”

“I am suggesting that you do not wait to be told what it is you desire, but that you seek it yourself. Though our family is divided, I would not see you injured for a lack of foresight, Amaury. I am suggesting that if Father denies you the chance to win the experience you need, just as he denied me, that you leave him and seek it yourself, that you follow his example and perhaps prosper as he has done.”

“I could not defy him, as you did!”

Bayard shook his head and stepped away. “Then wait for him to
tell
you to become a man. Perhaps he will do it one day.” He sheathed his blade with a smooth gesture, though his brother did not move. “And tell Father that he and I may make amends when he allows you to tourney and to ride to war.”

With that, Bayard strode away, his anger simmering. He was surprised to discover that he was shaking. The old anger at his father’s protectiveness was still simmering, as was his own protectiveness toward his younger brother.

He was furious that his father had not changed his course over these past years, for he had hoped that his own departure would spur some sort of change. ’Twas he who had always defied his father, and Amaury who accepted what he was told to accept.

Aye, part of Bayard’s reason for challenging his father so harshly was to win better training for his brother. He had seen it at the time as granting his father a second chance to train an heir, for Bayard had never doubted that he would win an estate of his own. Villonne, to his thinking, had always been destined for Amaury - good, honest Amaury who made the most of what he was granted and did not yearn for more, as Bayard always had.

Amaury spoke aright - they had always been close. Perhaps the differences between them had allowed them to appreciate each other without the taint of competitiveness. Bayard had kept his brother from many a misstep.

’Twas irksome, indeed, that he had left his family to grant his father a lesson and that lesson had been one his father refused to take. That his father did not see the threat posed to Amaury’s future made Bayard want to shout at him anew.

Perhaps he would speak to his father again.

Bayard was surprised not only that his fury at his father lingered but that ’twas so intense. He had been certain that his past was left surely behind him, of as much import to him as the tale of another’s woes.

’Twas illogical to be so concerned with matters so long behind him.

Perhaps he had not spoken to his father at Ceinn-beithe because he could not have trusted himself to do so in a civilized manner. He might have raged, he might have wept, he most certainly would not have exchanged polite greetings with a bow.

He recognized the same impulse in himself now.

“Andrew! Michael! Hasten yourselves,” he shouted, needing only to be away from this place. “We ride on this day!”

* * *

But in keeping with Bayard’s recent lack of good fortune, Esmeraude herself stepped from the solar as he was riding for the gates. She headed directly into his path, clearly determined to speak with him just when he was in no mood to be persuasive.

Curse Dame Fortune and all her ilk!

“Your eyes are too blue,” Esmeraude said with a winsome smile. “Surely I cannot have riled you already this morn.” She looked as if she had slept well - or loved lustily enough not to care - and annoyance rolled through Bayard in response.