Tracing the Shadow Page 30

  “This is for you, Paol,” he said softly. He drew himself up to his full height and set off across the drawbridge. Minutes later, he was being led by a Guerrier not much older than he across the main courtyard. In the distance he could hear the sound of marching feet; in an inner courtyard he glimpsed a troop of Guerriers practicing drill to the insistent beat of a snare drum. It seemed so far from the corridors of the conservatoire and the idle, self-indulgent existence he had been leading.

  “Welcome, Jagu!” Captain de Lanvaux rose from his desk to greet him. “Welcome to the Commanderie.”

  As Jagu returned the captain’s firm handshake, he felt as though a heavy cloak were being lifted from his shoulders. He had made the right choice. A military career would be so much more rewarding than eking out his days in the salons of the rich, playing insipid music as background accompaniment to their little amours and scandals.

  “You won’t regret your decision,” said Captain de Lanvaux. He watched as Jagu signed the commission, then added his signature below.

  Regret? Jagu had spent many sleepless nights before making his decision. He was committing himself to a soldier’s life, a soldier monk of the Order of Saint Sergius. And if that meant leading a celibate existence, dedicating all his energies to fighting evil, then he was strong enough to resist temptation. Ruaud de Lanvaux must have made a similar decision at his age, and he seemed the most well balanced man Jagu had ever met.

  “You’ll undergo the basic training, like every new recruit, including a tour of duty in Enhirre,” the captain said, placing his hand on Jagu’s shoulder. “But first, you must meet your superior officer. Come in, Guerrier Guyomard.”

  Jagu heard the once-familiar name, but did not instantly make the connection. A tall young officer entered and gave Captain de Lanvaux a vigorous salute.

  “It must be a few years since you last saw each other.” The captain was smiling as he spoke. “Guerrier, take Rustéphan to his billet and get him a uniform.”

  “Captain!” Guyomard turned to Jagu, who was staring at him in amazement. The flyaway thatch of ginger-blond hair might have been tamed into a more military cut, but the mischievous glint in those pale green eyes was unmistakable.

  “Kilian?” Jagu said, staring at his friend.

  “The same!” That roguish, lopsided grin was unchanged too. “How long is it? Six years, seven since you left Saint Argantel’s in such a hurry?”

  Captain de Lanvaux gave a discreet cough. Kilian instantly straightened up. “Forgive me, Captain. Follow me, Rustéphan.”

  Outside the captain’s room, Kilian stopped, turned, and gave Jagu a friendly punch on the shoulder that almost knocked him off-balance. “Jagu! Where’ve you been hiding all these years?”

  Jagu could not stop looking at his friend’s face, trying to match it to his memories of the eleven-year-old Kilian. “Didn’t Abbé Houardon tell you? The captain arranged for me to study at the conservatoire, here in Lutèce.”

  “So why join up? Or weren’t you cut out to be a musician after all?”

  Jagu gave Kilian a frank look. “Because I owe it to Paol.” He saw Kilian’s confident smile fade a little at the mention of Paol’s name. And then he gave a careless shrug of the shoulders. “You’ll have time in plenty to repay your debt here, cadet.”

  “Cadet?”

  “You’ll have to salute and call me ‘sir.’”

  Jagu suddenly began to laugh. He had never expected to enroll and find that Kilian was his superior officer, but on seeing Kilian’s expression, he stopped laughing and saluted. “It’s good to see you,” he said, feeling that for once something was right with his world, and added, “Guerrier Guyomard, sir!”

  “You sang so beautifully for us the other night, Celestine.” Princess Adèle greeted her with both hands held out. Celestine had been about to curtsy but Adèle folded her affectionately in her arms and kissed her cheek, leaving a breath of her perfume, fresh as apple blossom. “I quite forgot my troubles listening to you.”

  “Your highness is too kind,” Celestine murmured, surprised by the familiarity of Adèle’s greeting.

  “And we’re alone, so no more of that ‘highness,’ please!” Adèle took her by the hand and led her to sit at a little table already laid with a tray of tea. “When we’re together, tête-à-tête, call me ‘Adèle.’ This tea is delicious, you must try some. It’s a new blend from Khitari. I prefer it with lemon, but Maman takes hers with milk.”

  Celestine accepted the delicate porcelain cup and tasted the tea. “What a delicate flavor,” she said, nodding her appreciation.

  “I thought you would like it.” Adèle took a little sip, then put down her cup. Celestine could tell that something was troubling her. “This has been such a strange week.” She looked up suddenly and asked, “Have you ever felt that you’ve lost all control of your own destiny?”

  Celestine was surprised by the directness of the question. She glanced around, wondering if they were truly alone in the little rose-papered salon, or if some hidden court spy was listening in on their conversation. Adèle was gazing earnestly at her, waiting for her reply. She wanted to say, “When my father was burned at the stake as a heretic,” for that would have been the most truthful answer of all. But instead, she had to content herself with saying, “I’ve been very fortunate. Ever since Captain de Lanvaux rescued me from a life of poverty, I’ve been offered choices along the way. And I’ve been blessed with a kind and sweet royal patron, Adèle.”

  Adèle nodded, acknowledging the compliment. “How I envy you, Celestine. I wish we could change places, even for a week or two! But I sing like a crow, so no one would ever seriously accept me in your stead. Can I confide in you? My father wants me married.”

  “Married?” Celestine could tell from Adèle’s dejected expression that the princess was not at all enamored of the idea. “Does he have anyone in mind?”

  “So far, there are three prospective husbands.” Adèle pulled a face. “And when I said it was too soon, I was treated to a long lecture by Papa on duty to my country and my family. But two of the three are far older than I! First there’s Eugene of Tielen; his wife has just died in childbirth.” She shivered. “How could I marry a Tielen, Celestine? After they killed so many of our countrymen?”

  Celestine had never given serious thought to what it might mean to be married. She shook her head in sympathy.

  “Then there’s Ilsevir of Allegonde. Twenty-six. I last met him when we were little children and he played a horrible trick on me. He gave me a biscuit to eat with some red jam on it. But it wasn’t jam, it was hot paprika paste!” She showed Celestine a miniature in an oval gold case.

  “He looks…pleasant,” said Celestine. Prince Ilsevir could in no way be described as handsome from this little portrait. She saw a rather ordinary-looking young man, with mouse-brown hair, his plain features redeemed by an endearing smile.

  Adèle sighed. “How he looks, what manner of man he is, matters little to Papa. Above all, the match must be advantageous to Francia. Now, if he were only as handsome as your accompanist, I would have nothing to complain about.”

  “Jagu? Handsome?” Celestine had never thought of him in that way. “But he always looks so surly and bad-tempered. I’ve never even seen him smile.”

  “Ah, but the way he was looking at you with those brooding dark eyes when you were singing. You couldn’t see it, but I could.” A teasing glint lit Adèle’s eyes.

  “An accompanist has to keep looking at his soloist.” Celestine could feel the color rising to her cheeks. The princess was certain to interpret this as a sign of her secret affection for Jagu, when nothing could be further from the truth!

  “You make a very attractive pair.”

  “Not any longer,” Celestine said huffily. “He’s just enrolled in the Guerriers.”

  “No!” Adèle looked shocked. “But doesn’t that mean he has to take a vow of celibacy? My poor Celestine.”

  “I don’t care what he does with hi
s future.” What was the princess implying? “If he wants to stay celibate all his life, that’s his affair.”

  “Or…have you rejected his love and sent him away in such despair that he’d rather go fight in the desert than stay near you, knowing you can never be his?”

  Celestine’s mouth dropped open in surprise. It had never occurred to her until then that Jagu might have been hiding his true feelings for her. They had done nothing but argue over everything for the past weeks. And yet there had been that incident at the Smarnan reception, when he had defended her, standing up to the odious Tielen count. Had there been other subtle hints that she had missed, obsessed as she was with Henri de Joyeuse?

  “It’s too late now,” she heard herself saying.

  “You heartbreaker.”

  “You mentioned three prospective husbands,” Celestine said swiftly. “Who is the third?”

  Adèle rose and went to a little escritoire. “Andrei Orlov.” She showed Celestine a second miniature, painted in jewel-bright colors like a little icon. The face that stared boldly back at Celestine was striking: a beautiful, dark-browed, blue-eyed boy with a wild tousle of black curls. “Why did you keep him hidden away? He’s so handsome,” she said, studying the portrait. “Although there’s something willful, almost arrogant, about his expression.”

  “Do you think so?” Adèle leaned over her shoulder for a closer look. “I hear he’s got himself into trouble at the Naval Academy more than once. And he likes to gamble.”

  “So he’s heir to the throne of Muscobar?”

  Adèle gave a shiver of revulsion. “In wintertime, the hours of daylight in Muscobar are so brief. And it’s so cold that the rivers freeze over for months on end. I could endure the cold…but not the lack of the sun.” She took the miniature back from Celestine, addressing the prince’s portrait. “But if you’re the one Papa favors, then I may have to learn to love the snow.”

  When Jagu tried to recall his first weeks as a cadet Guerrier, all he could remember was bone-aching exhaustion and a never-ending bombardment of shouted commands. The cadets rose before dawn, attended prayers in the Commanderie chapel, then were put through a series of drills and physical exercises on the parade ground. In the afternoons, they left the Forteresse to practice maneuvers on horseback in the river meadows beyond the city walls. There they also learned how to assemble, load, and fire muskets and small pieces of ordnance, before returning to the Forteresse for blade work with sabers and foils, or wrestling in the Salle d’Armes.

  Jagu was certain that he’d made the greatest mistake of his life. Night after night he would collapse onto his hard, narrow bed, feeling every muscle in his body protesting. It was especially galling to find that Kilian was his superior; maturity had not tempered the malicious streak in Kilian’s nature. He seemed to relish his role as Jagu’s commanding officer, finding all manner of subtle ways to embarrass him in front of the other cadets.

  One evening, returning exhausted to the cadets’ quarters, he pushed open the door, only to trip over a rope stretched across the opening and crash headlong to the floor. Gales of helpless laughter erupted from the other cadets. Jagu looked up to see Kilian standing behind the door.

  “For God’s sake, Kilian, what are you trying to do, get me killed?”

  Kilian crouched down beside him. “Ah, but I can’t be seen to be favoring my old schoolmate, can I, cadet?” Jagu glimpsed the glint in his pale eyes. “Tongues would wag soon enough. Besides, if you’re going to serve in Enhirre, this is just the kind of surprise attack you need to be prepared for.”

  Jagu rolled over onto his back, eyes closed, and let out a sigh, knowing himself defeated.

  Throughout the long ride to the Monastery of Saint Bernez, Ruaud had much time to wonder about the enigmatic summons he had received from the king.

  “We need to talk. Make any excuse you can for leaving Lutèce—but don’t reveal to anyone that you are coming to Saint Bernez.”

  Why was the king so insistent on secrecy? And why had he requested him, out of all the Commanderie Guerriers? Yet as he rode up the narrow mountain path toward the monastery, the stark beauty of the sunlit peaks overwhelmed him, making his concerns seem insignificant.

  As Ruaud entered the cloisters, he caught sight of Gobain in the herb garden, bending down to pinch a leaf of lemon balm, sniffing the scent it left on his fingertips.

  “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting, sire.”

  Gobain straightened up. “Not at all; I was enjoying the silence. And the sunlight. Now I see why you brought Enguerrand here on retreat; there’s a healing quality to the air in the mountains.”

  “And the brothers are skilled gardeners.” Ruaud surveyed the wide kitchen gardens and orchards beyond. “They say that nothing heals the pain in a man’s soul better than an hour or two of energetic digging.”

  “Walk with me, Captain.” Gobain set off at an easy pace toward the orchards.

  Ruaud matched his step to the king’s, nodding to the monks they passed, busy at work among the neat rows of cabbages and lettuces in the kitchen gardens. As they passed through the doorway into the orchard, a flutter of bright-feathered bullfinches took off in zigzagging flight from the nearest branches. Still the king had said nothing, leaving Ruaud wondering what the true purpose of the summons might be.

  “How sweet the air smells up here,” said Gobain. “Even the rain has a fresh scent. It would be a pleasant place in which to end one’s days.”

  “Surely your majesty is not contemplating leaving us so soon…” began Ruaud, and stopped as he saw the king’s dark eyes regarding him keenly.

  “Let’s proceed a little farther.”

  It had not escaped Ruaud’s notice that the apple orchard was deserted except for the bullfinches. Gobain must have brought him here to talk about a matter of some sensitivity.

  Gobain walked on. “I’ll be frank with you, de Lanvaux. The doctors have given me six months; a year if I’m lucky.”

  Ruaud stared at the king; he could see no hint of sickness in his ruddy complexion. “Surely they’re mistaken, sire.”

  “I look well for a dying man, don’t I?” said Gobain with a grim chuckle. “My only consolation is that I’ve outlived Karl of Tielen.”

  “Prince Karl is dead?” Ruaud tried to make sense of two such startling pieces of information. With Karl dead, the balance of power in the quadrant might shift back in Francia’s favor.

  “A stroke, from what our agents have gleaned so far.”

  “All the more reason now, sire, for proving your doctors wrong.”

  Gobain gave a sigh. He had stopped close to a stone bench set beneath the crooked apple trees and eased himself down onto it. “I’m confiding in you, Captain, because Enguerrand respects you. He listens to you. You’ve wrought a change in my son; I can see it already, a change for the better.”

  “He’s a credit to you, sire, a good-hearted, studious boy.”

  “Studious?” Gobain echoed contemptuously. “What use is a love of books and libraries when you have a kingdom to govern? Listen, de Lanvaux, I want you to devote yourself to making a man of him. A man fit to reign in my stead.”

  Enguerrand’s earnest, bespectacled face flashed before Ruaud’s eyes. The prince was the complete opposite of his father; he loathed hunting and was equally clumsy with a fencing foil or a tennis racquet.

  “Enguerrand is at an impressionable age. His mother doted on Aubrey. Enguerrand is a disappointment to her and he knows it. He’ll need all the encouragement and support you can give him when I’m gone.”

  Ruaud nodded, moved by the king’s stoical attitude to his own mortality.

  “Besides, it won’t have escaped your notice that the queen listens to Donatien, Captain. And I consider Donatien to be a dangerous influence on my wife. He’s even been interfering with my plans for Adèle.”

  “Interfering, sire?”

  “I don’t know what Donatien’s motivation is, but he has convinced Aliénor that the alliance with
Muscobar I’ve been planning will be disastrous for Francia. They’ve dreamed up a devious little scheme of their own involving Ilsevir of Allegonde.”

  The conversation had taken an unexpected turn; Ruaud had not expected the king to share such personal concerns with him. He thought carefully before framing his next question. “Do we know what her majesty’s objections are to the Muscobar alliance, sire?”

  “She loathes the Grand Duchess Sofiya. It all goes back to some incident at a ball when they were girls. She’s felt slighted ever since.”

  Ruaud raised an eyebrow. Surely the fate of Francia could not be influenced by so trivial a matter?

  “To be frank, Lanvaux, I’m extremely uneasy about Allegonde. Ilsevir has proved himself pretty ineffectual so far, too easily manipulated by his politicians. And then there’s the Allegondan Commanderie.”

  Ruaud was listening with intense concentration now. “The cult of the Rosecoeur?”

  “What’s your opinion on the Rosecoeurs?” Gobain’s eyes suddenly lit with a penetrating, inquisitive light.

  “I’m a follower of Sergius of Azhkendir, sire.” Ruaud spoke from the heart. “I distrust anything to do with cults.”

  “Good man.” Gobain nodded his approval. “That’s why I want you to know that I’m placing all my trust in you. I’m going to allow Donatien just enough rope to hang himself. And when he does, you’ll be Grand Maistre in his place.”

  “Me, sire?” Ruaud had never imagined himself at the helm of the Commanderie; he had always assumed that he would be sent back to Enhirre when Enguerrand came of age.

  “So you weren’t aware of the communications that have been secretly traveling to and fro between Donatien and the Rosecoeurs?”

  Dumbly, Ruaud shook his head.

  “Watch your back, Lanvaux. Aliénor wields a great deal of influence. If she suspects that you’re working against her plans for her daughter, she will do all she can to have you removed.”