The Red Duke Read online

  “The Red Duke left many scars upon the land,” Armand said gravely. “The peasants of my father’s fief to this day whisper the most horrible stories about those times. They have a custom that each Witching Night they procure a dead raven and send a delegation to the cemetery on Ceren Field to entreat the god Morr to keep the Red Duke in his grave.”

  Duke Gilon nodded as he heard Sir Armand relate the morbid tradition. “There are many such customs in Aquitaine, and not all of them are practised by peasants.” The nobleman sighed deeply. Directing a last look at the portrait, he withdrew from the hearth and seated himself in a high-backed chair at the centre of the room. Armand followed his lord, taking one of the smaller chairs arrayed in a semi-circle about the duke’s seat. A liveried steward hastened away from his post beside a mahogany and brass cellaret, bearing a bottle of dark wine and a pair of silver goblets upon a silver tray.

  The two noblemen accepted the refreshments. Duke Gilon waited for his servant to withdraw before resuming his conversation with Sir Armand. “I did not summon you here only to show you the portrait of King Louis or to share this excellent vintage, though I think you will agree that either would be sufficient excuse to bring a knight to Castle Aquin.” The old nobleman’s expression grew sombre. “It is a more serious problem I need to discuss with you. A delicate matter that concerns Count Ergon’s offer to instruct my son in the finer aspects of swordsmanship.”

  Duke Gilon raised his hand to forestall any objection from Sir Armand. “I know that you are renowned as the finest blade in all Aquitaine. The graveyards of one particular fief can attest to your skill and prowess. I do not think your father had any untoward motive when he made his gracious offer. At the same time, I do not think he appreciates the consequences of merely making such an offer might have.”

  “I know that I am young,” Sir Armand said, “but Sir Richemont is a fair-minded man…”

  “It is not your age that is at issue,” Duke Gilon said. “I have taught Richemont to respect ability wherever he finds it. He will be Duke of Aquitaine one day. Any ruler who will not acknowledge the skill of those he rules will not rule long. No, your youth is not at fault. It is your name. It is all those graves your tremendous ability with sword has filled. It is because if I allowed a du Maisne to instruct my son in anything I would lose the loyalty of the d’Elbiqs.”

  Armand scowled as he heard the duke mention the long and vicious feud between his family and that of Earl Gaubert d’Elbiq. A feud that had caused Armand to personally take the lives of sixteen men.

  “I see you appreciate the situation,” Duke Gilon said. “I will spare your father any embarrassment. Sir Richemont has left Aquitaine to go on a pilgrimage to Couronne. While he is away, he will receive instruction from the king’s own fencing-masters. When he returns, there will be no need for Count Ergon to renew his offer.” The old nobleman frowned as he saw the disappointment on Sir Armand’s face. “I am sorry, but it is the only way to proceed without slighting either the du Maisnes or the d’Elbiqs. If your two families would only end their feud…”

  “Earl Gaubert would never let it go,” Armand stated, bitterness in his voice. “He has already lost too much. Pride will not allow him to set his hate aside. My father is the same way. All he can think of are my uncle and my grandfather slain by d’Elbiq swordsmen. The feud perpetuates itself, generation upon generation, like two snakes trying to swallow each other’s tail. I don’t know if anyone even remembers what started the feud. It is simply something they have grown up with and are too headstrong to set aside.”

  “You speak as though you would set it aside,” Duke Gilon said, approval in his voice.

  Sir Armand shook his head. “What I want doesn’t matter. I obey my father. That is a son’s duty.”

  The great iron-banded double doors that fronted the hall abruptly were drawn open. A liveried servant accompanied by a steel-clad man-at-arms strode into the hall, bowing as they approached Duke Gilon. Behind them, flanked by two more men-at-arms, marched a young knight in plate armour, his surcoat dusty from travel, his face flush from too many hours beneath the unforgiving sun.

  “An emissary from Earl Gaubert d’Elbiq,” the servant announced. The functionary gestured with a gloved hand at the travel-stained knight. “He says that he brings most urgent tidings.”

  While he was being presented to his lord, the dark-haired knight kept his eyes fixed upon Sir Armand. There was unmistakable, murderous hate in the knight’s gaze. His fingers flexed about the hilt of his sword, his thumb drumming against the gilded pommel.

  “I compliment Earl Gaubert upon his sources of information,” Duke Gilon told the dark-haired knight, his tone cold and disapproving. “Sir Armand arrived here only a few hours ago. From the look of you, the earl must have dispatched you as soon as the news reached him. He should not have bothered. This is a private audience and does not concern the d’Elbiqs.” In his anger, Duke Gilon no longer cared if the d’Elbiqs felt slighted. It would remind them of their place.

  The knight shifted his gaze away from Sir Armand and bowed deeply before Duke Gilon. “Forgive me, your grace, but Earl Gaubert wanted to inform you that the Argonian boar he purchased is ready to be hunted. He seeks your permission to conduct the hunt at the end of the month and begs your grace and Sir Richemont to consider being his guests and participating in the chase.”

  Duke Gilon’s smile was thin, not a trace of credulence in his voice when he spoke. “Earl Gaubert has been toying with that brute for an entire season. Many in my court thought he was going to make a pet of it. Now, suddenly, he decides to host a hunt.” He turned his head and stared at Armand, noticing the tight set of the man’s jaw, the intense look of his expression. Turning back, he caught the hostile glower of the other knight, noted the thumb tapping impatiently upon the knight’s sword.

  “You have delivered the earl’s message,” Duke Gilon told the knight. “I will send one of my yeomen with an answer.” The old nobleman grimaced when the dark-haired knight made no move to quit the hall, instead glaring at Sir Armand. Irritably, the duke motioned for his men-at-arms to remove the impertinent knight.

  Armand saw the soldiers closing upon the messenger. It was he who asked Duke Gilon to call them back. “Your grace does not recognize the messenger Earl Gaubert has sent to find me. This man is the earl’s youngest son, Sir Girars d’Elbiq.”

  “His only son,” Sir Girars retorted acidly. “My brothers lie buried in the family tomb, alongside their cousins and all the others who have been butchered by your sword.”

  Duke Gilon rose to his feet, clenching his fist before him. “I will have no bloodshed here!” the nobleman swore. “I don’t care who started this feud, but I promise if one of you draws a blade here, I will hang victor and victim both!”

  Armand shook his head, the look he directed upon Girars was sympathetic. “We have all lost much in the name of family pride.”

  “The du Maisnes have not lost enough,” Girars snarled. “You’ve carved a reputation from the corpses of the d’Elbiqs. I am here to balance that debt!”

  Armand sighed, feeling as though a great weight were pressing down upon him. “Yes, I’ve killed many men, good men. Whatever your father says, they died fairly and in open combat. Think about that for a moment. Think about your brothers and their skill at arms. Think about how strong their swords were. Then remember that they could not vanquish me.” Armand’s tone became almost pleading. “You’ve only just won your spurs. Don’t throw your life away on a fight you cannot win.”

  Girars scowled at his enemy’s display of emotion. Coldly he drew off the gauntlet from his left hand and cast it down at Armand’s feet.

  “I will hang you for that,” Duke Gilon cursed. “I have told you there will be no fighting in this castle.”

  “Then we shall take our duel somewhere else,” Girars said. “That is, if this cur has enough honour in him to lake up my challenge.”

  Solemnly, Armand bent down and retrieved the gauntle
t from the floor. He stared into Girars eyes and nodded his head slowly. “Name the place and choose your second,” he told the knight.

  “Then think about what you will say to your brothers.”

  Sir Armand du Maisne reached down from the saddle of his destrier and took the heavy kite shield his squire lifted up to him, the unicorn and grail heraldry of the du Maisnes displayed prominently upon a field of blue. The knight waited patiently as the squire circled the warhorse and lifted the massive lance to Armand. He nodded grimly as he received the weapon, its painted shaft, gaudily daubed in a swirl of red and yellow stripes, incongruous with the vicious steel head.

  Across the plain, Armand watched as Sir Girars took up his own arms. The boar and crescent heraldry of the d’Elbiqs marked his green shield, his lance painted in a pattern of blue and black checks that matched the caparison of his steed. Before Girars lowered the visor of his helm, Armand could see his enemy’s eyes glaring at him, the extreme passion of his hatred making his cheeks tremble. Seldom had Armand seen such determination, such unwavering commitment to bloodshed. Never had he seen such emotion upon the visage of one so young.

  A crowd had gathered upon the grassy plain above the village of Aquitaine, some few miles from the grey walls of Castle Aquin. Word of the duel had passed through the court of Duke Gilon, filtering down even to the peasants in the fields and vineyards. Before the two combatants had even arrived, a festival-like atmosphere had descended upon the designated battleground. Nobles from the duke’s court—their lord notable by his absence—sat comfortably in the shade of hastily assembled pavilions while a great mob of peasants sat in the grass and watched the proceedings with an ignorant kind of excitement. Unfamiliar with the nuances of custom and honour, the peasants observed every motion of the knights and their attendants with rapt fascination.

  Sir Armand looked to his second, a knight from his father’s court named Ranulf. “If I fall here,” he told the knight, “I order you to make no action against Sir Girars.”

  Ranulf grimaced at Armand’s admonishment. “There would be no question if you had chosen to face him across swords,” the knight growled. “This d’Elbiq scum would be dead and there’d be one less of the bastards stinking up the dukedom. Why, by the Lady, do you choose to fight him with a lance instead of a sword…”

  “Because that is my decision,” Armand said firmly. He looked across the field, watching as Girars had final words with his own second. There was a definite resemblance between them, though Girars’ second was a few years older. A cousin, perhaps. Certainly one who had d’Elbiq blood flowing through his veins.

  “Count Ergon will not forgive me if I let some slinking d’Elbiq kill his son,” Ranulf cursed.

  Armand shook his head. “If this man kills me, then it is no murder, but the result of a fair duel. If there is any justice in my father’s heart, he will understand.” Armand lowered the visor of his helm, cutting off any further protest from Ranulf. He fixed his gaze across the grassy plain, watching Girars as d’Elbiqs warhorse trotted away from the tangle of squires and attendants that surrounded him. Armand prodded the side of his own mount and made his way onto the field.

  For all of his bravado, Armand was disturbed by Ranulf’s words. The knight was right, there was a wide gulf between Armand’s renowned skill with the sword and his ability with the lance. Was it chivalry or pity that had moved Armand to choose the lesser weapon? As the party offended by Girars’ challenge, the choice had been his. Indeed, even Girars had been surprised when Armand had shunned the sword and chosen the lance.

  Perhaps it was as simple as an abiding sense of fair-play. Armand knew there was no man in Aquitaine who could match blades with him. Sir Girars was no more than a knight errant, still learning the discipline of a warrior. Crossing swords with Girars would be a despicable act, unbecoming any man of honour and decency. The feud between the du Maisnes and d’Elbiqs had already taken much from both sides, but Armand would not let his personal honour become a casualty of the conflict. If he had to die upon Girars’ lance to keep his integrity, then that was in the Lady’s hands.

  Sir Girars spurred his horse into a gallop, charging down the field towards Armand, his lance lowered, its steel point gleaming in the sun like a daemon’s fang. Armand urged his own steed down the field, fixing his gaze upon the armoured figure of his foe.

  The sound of iron-shod hooves pounded across the field, clumps of grass and dirt flying as the two knights hurtled towards one another. Even the watching nobles held their breath as the two combatants came crashing together.

  Girars’ lance failed to pierce Armand’s shield, or the man behind it. Instead the steel tip of his weapon was deflected downwards, glancing off the side of the thick steel champron that encased the head of Armand’s horse.

  Armand’s weapon struck the top of his foe’s shield with such force that the arm holding it was snapped like a twig. Girars’ now useless arm flopped against his side, the smashed rim of the shield folded against the pauldron protecting his shoulder.

  The violent impact and red rush of pain that followed sent Girars reeling. His warhorse wheeled about in response to his erratic leg movements, spilling its crippled master from the saddle. Girars crashed hard against the ground, clutching his broken arm against his chest.

  Sir Armand turned his steed around and advanced upon the fallen Girars. The enemy knight slowly regained his feet, watching in brooding silence as Armand came towards him. The fallen knight held his ground as Armand pointed the tip of his lance at him.

  “Honour is satisfied,” Armand told his opponent. “Yield and I will spare your life.”

  Expectant silence held the crowd. Noblemen leaned forwards in their seats, straining to hear every word. A few bold peasants crept out upon the field, their eyes locked upon both men: victor and vanquished.

  Girars sagged before Armand’s threat, all the strength seeming to wither inside him. He lifted his head slowly, reluctantly, and stared at his enemy.

  “A d’Elbiq yield to a du Maisne?” Girars hissed. “Never!”

  The unhorsed knight suddenly surged forwards, hurling himself beneath Armand’s lance. Acting against all the rules of chivalry, Girars drove the mangled mess of armour and shield locked about his left shoulder into the throat of Armand’s horse. The surprised animal reared back onto its hind legs, kicking its forelegs through the air. Girars ducked beneath the flailing hooves, beating his gauntlet against his breastplate and shouting at the animal, oblivious to the jeers and boos of the spectators.

  Armand was able to stay mounted the first three times his destrier reared. After that, he lost his grip and was thrown to the ground, crashing to earth in a clatter of armour and bruises. The padding beneath the knight’s armour absorbed most of the impact, leaving him merely winded from the brutal fall. Quickly he heaved himself up from the grass, swinging about as his enemy came at him.

  Girars’ sword slashed down at Armand as he rose, narrowly missing the join between gorget and helm. The crippled knight vengefully kicked at Armand’s knee, trying to drive him back to the ground for an easy kill. Armand brought his fist smashing into the younger knight’s injured shoulder, pounding against the top of the crumpled shield. Girars screamed as the impact drove a sliver of his splintered shield through his torn forearm.

  Armand staggered away, using the momentary distraction of Girars to draw his own sword. He paused as he started to slide the blade from its scabbard. Even now, even after Girars’ dishonourable conduct, he felt reluctance to cross swords with a foe whose skill was so far beneath his own.

  “Coward!” Girars hissed as he noted Armand’s hesitance. “Don’t you dare give me quarter!”

  The incensed knight lunged at Armand, stabbing at the join between breastplate and cuirass, trying to sink his steel in his enemy’s belly. Armand spun with Girars’ attack, instincts honed upon years of duels and battles becoming master of his body, overwhelming the mind that would restrain them. Before Armand was consciously
aware of what he had done, Girars was lying at his feet, Armand’s blade thrust into the armpit beneath the young knight’s right shoulder.

  Armand watched as his stricken foe’s body shivered and fell still. Coldly, he knelt beside the dead knight and wrenched his sword free. Rising, he turned towards Girars’ second. Cold wrath filled Armand’s voice as he addressed the remaining d’Elbiq, wrath that drew its fuel not from an ancient feud but from what that feud had made him do this day.

  “Put him beside his brothers,” Armand said, his voice trembling with rage. “But when you commend his spirit to the Lady, do not name me as his killer. This boy should never have crossed swords with me. Not until he was man enough to win such a fight.” Armand slammed his blade back into its sheath.

  “I did not kill this boy,” he repeated. “His killer is the man who made him ride out to be butchered. His killer sits in the Chateau d’Elbiq. When you see Earl Gaubert, tell him what I’ve said! Tell him to waste no more of my time with challengers that are beneath me! Tell him to murder his own children from this day on!”

  CHAPTER II

  The Bretonnians sword flashed beneath the desert sun, carving a scarlet swathe through the dusky raider, slashing through the raider’s flowing black bisht and tearing into the quilted armour beneath. The swarthy man cried out in agony, dropping his scimitar as he tried to press his cut belly back together.

  Ruthlessly, the Bretonnian drove the pommel of his sword into the maimed Arabyan’s face, breaking his nose and knocking the spiked helmet from his head. The nomad toppled, crashing face-first into the sand, a cloud of grey dust ballooning around his body.

  The Duke of Aquitaine shook the blood from his sword and glared at his remaining foes. Like a pack of jackals, the black-garbed Arabyans circled him, fingering the curved blades of their scimitars, curses and maledictions rattling off their tongues. The duke was thankful he did not understand the Arabyan dialect so well as his sovereign, King Louis. If he did, he might take umbrage from the words these heathen killers hurled upon him.