Chapter 6

  Following a prayer, the castle servants brought out the final round of appetizers before the ceremony. Bowls of leek soup, colored golden with what Isabeau presumed to be a spice of some sort, were laid out before each guest. Baskets of rosemary rolls made with only the whitest flour, hard cheese studded with almonds, and roasted eggplant made their rounds, as did the musicians and jesters who entertained.

  Isabeau, Sir Tancred, and Blaise sat at a table together, Tancred chuckling as Isabeau examined her soup.

  “Leeks aren’t supposed to be yellow, are they?” she asked.

  “Isabeau,” said Sir Tancred, “The soup’s color comes from saffron, I’m sure.”

  “Saffron?”

  “Yet another display of the wealth of the Baultains. At many a market, the spice is worth more than even silver or gold.”

  “Showoffs,” Isabeau huffed, dipping her spoon into the soup. “How was your talk with Martha, Blaise?”

  “It went well enough,” said Blaise with a shrug. “About the painting…you were right. She painted it exactly for the reasons you suspected, nearly down to the word.”

  “Guess I’m getting better at sleuthing.” Isabeau lifted her spoon to her lips and sampled the soup. It wasn’t as good as Sir Tancred’s, but it would do. She glanced up from her soup and saw Martha herself approaching. Isabeau wanted to ask her so many questions but couldn’t be sure that any time would be appropriate. She gave a nod of acknowledgement as the young woman arrived and took a seat at the bench beside Blaise.

  “Do you mind if I sit here for a little while?” Martha asked, her brown eyes briefly glancing over her shoulder. A signal, to Isabeau, that she might be risking her grandmother’s ire by sitting there.

  “Not at all,” said Sir Tancred, “the future bride deserves a seat by her betrothed.”

  “You can cut the act, now, Sir Tancred,” Martha spat, her demeanor’s change as sudden as a knife in the back. Isabeau’s mouth fell open slightly as she saw her mentor’s stunned face.

  “So you know, then,” the Black Knight lowered his voice, “why Isabeau and I are here with Sir Blaise.”

  “I do,” whispered Martha with another glance over her shoulder, “and though I can’t pay you with silver right now, I can at least pay you by getting Lord and Lady Dragoul out of here before they end up in danger.”

  “What sort of danger are you talking?” asked Isabeau, leaning forward with interest.

  “My grandmother’s plot. Lord Dragoul has no idea of the evil of the family he’s preparing to marry his son into.”

  “Her plot?” asked Blaise.

  “There’s been some trouble in the royal capital,” Martha whispered, “and my grandmother has some benefactors there who are seeking the elimination of your family and promise her rulership over Lebre as a reward.”

  Blaise’s blood ran cold and his heart beat so furiously that he could feel it trying to climb up into his throat.

  “What do you mean, eliminate my family?” He hissed, almost loud enough that a guest could have heard.

  “I can’t provide the details now,” Martha replied. “Sir Geoffroi can get your parents out through our wine cellar. Someone just needs to tell him I’m ready.”

  “Lord Dragoul’s already drunk off his arse,” Isabeau grumbled, looking over her shoulder. “He’ll want more, soon, and I could probably just walk him and his wife over to Sir Geoffroi no problem.”

  “Wonderful,” said Martha. “Just make it seem innocent enough, because I think Sir Geoffroi might still be a bit hesitant to pull this off. I’d say that if a fine young lady flirts with him a little…”

  “I’m on it,” Isabeau replied without question.

  “I’m counting on you, Knights,” Martha whispered. “be practical, because if you fail—”

  “Martha!” The Duchess’s voice rang out. “Come taste this wine Sir Tancred so generously provided. It is simply divine.”

  “—Coming, Grandmama~!” Martha replied in the fakest, sing-songiest voice Isabeau had ever heard. Once again, the fake Martha’s light went out as abruptly as a pinched candle, and she turned a hardened gaze back to the Knights.

  “All of our lives are on the line now,” she said jabbing a finger at them, “so I’m counting on all of you.” Martha then left the table, a rehearsed skip in her step as she returned to the old matriarch of the Baultains. Isabeau glanced around the room to see where her target stood. Glancing over the headdressed and chaperoned heads of the guests, she eventually found Sir Geoffroi leaning up against the wall by one of the doors to and from the hall. He had his arms folded, and he appeared to be staring in the Duchess’s direction with precise concentration.

  “Sir Tancred,” Isabeau requested, “may I be excused?”

  “You may,” he replied, “just…be modest with Geoffroi, will you?”

  “I’ll try,” she replied, leaving the bench.

  Isabeau made her way through the banquet hall, giving herself all the space she could to not bump into anyone or rouse suspicions. As she passed, she noticed the table where Sir Abramo sat, which was occupied by a woman with veiny, almost leather-like skin, and an individual whose face was obscured by a blue hood. The hooded man sat calmly with tented fingers, and Abramo enjoyed a drink while the woman shot a glance at Isabeau. The stranger had half her head shaved closely, while the other half of her hair ran long and dark. She leaned towards Isabeau and let out a low growl.

  “Easy, Minerva,” Abramo chided the woman, who snorted and seemed to back down.

  If I saw right, Isabeau thought, that woman was another homunculus. A frightening one, too.

  Isabeau made her way over to the hallway where Lord and Lady Dragoul were standing and was presented with a positively mortifying sight. Blaise’s father was now fully under the influence and offering his wife a proposition he certainly shouldn’t be making at any party, let alone his son’s own wedding.

  “I was thinking,” he slurred, rubbing his thumbs over his wife’s hands.

  “What were you thinking about?” Emilia muttered, sounding very done with all of this.

  “I was thinking,” Blaise’s father chuckled, “we made three wonderful children already. Why don’t we make another one when we get home?”

  Isabeau had never felt such a sensation before, revulsion mixed with having to restrain herself from falling over and laughing. This was one of the most pathetic and also mortifying things she’d ever witnessed.

  “I think…” sighed Lord Dragoul’s wife, “that we’re too old for that now. You’re going straight to your chamber to sleep the wine off when we get home.”

  That was when Isabeau butted in.

  “Don’t put a damper on things when the party’s not even started,” she said as she rounded them up. “I heard that there’s a big cellar under this castle, with a wine even better than the one from Sir Tancred.”

  “Isabeau,” Blaise’s mother scolded her, “we were just speaking so well of you. More wine is the last thing that my Bertran needs right now.”

  “You heard her, Emilia,” said Lord Dragoul, swaying a bit as he attempted to step closer to Isabeau. “Bring on the wine! To the cellar!”

  While Lord Dragoul laughed and shouted nonsense about how drunk he was going to get, Isabeau leaned over to whisper in Emilia’s ear.

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  “We’re not going to let him have any of that wine,” said Isabeau. “This whole wedding isn’t what it seems, and Martha told me that the Duchess plans to harm you or worse. Every fucking one of these people here besides her, me, Sir Tancred, your son, and Sir Geoffroi over there has a dagger behind their back they’re planning to shove into you if we don’t get you out of here.”

  Isabeau watched for Lady Dragoul’s reaction. She didn’t seem keen on believing her at first, looking at her with narrowed eyes, until something appeared to dawn on her and she gave her a nod.

  “Thank you, Isabeau. Lead the way.”

  Isabeau nodded and led Blaise’s parents over towards the door where Sir Geoffroi stood guard. As she approached him, Isabeau rehearsed her lines in her head. She needed to not come across as trying too hard, or the escape might be off and this entire wedding would be drowned in blood.

  Just pretend he’s Loren, Isabeau, she encouraged herself, just pretend he’s Loren, and you will do fine.

  Martha called for the guests to praise the wine from Sir Tancred’s vineyard, a perfect distraction to allow her a brief conversation with Sir Geoffroi. She rehearsed some conversation starters in her head and approached the loyal knight of the Baultains.

  “They usually have dances at these sorts of things, don’t they?” she asked the knight as she approached him, being sure to look into his eyes. They were dark, with a hardness that befitted the elder knight.

  “Indeed, there will be a dance at the ceremony’s end,” said Sir Geoffroi.

  “Well, have you ever danced with a homunculus before?” Isabeau leaned forward slightly, pushing away a loose lock of hair.

  Sir Geoffroi’s face flushed a deep red, and his mustache turned upwards in a slight smile. Martha’s assessment seemed to be correct, the knight was practically Isabeau’s clay to mold.

  “I-I mean,” he stuttered, “no, I have not. I have the feeling that perhaps you have not come to me to ask for a dance, though.”

  Isabeau looked over her shoulder; everyone seemed far too busy drinking and praising the wine. So long as Isabeau could keep her voice low, she could tell Sir Geoffroi the truth. She patted the knight on the arm, who seemed to accept her gesture, and leaned towards him to quietly give the signal.

  “No, Sir, I’m not here to dance. Martha asked me to bring Blaise’s parents here so you can lead them out through the cellar.”

  Sir Geoffroi looked down at his boots, letting out a brief sigh. He grimaced uncomfortably, like the words he wanted to say would cut his throat on their way out.

  “So she told you about the plan.”

  “Other than that there’s a threat to the guests’ lives,” Isabeau replied, “not really.”

  “We can talk about it later,” said Sir Geoffroi.

  “Talk about what?” Blaise’s father began to complain. “Let’s get a move on, I want some more to drink.”

  Lady Dragoul shook her head, took her husband’s hand, and whispered in his ear. Bertran’s face went white and he appeared to sober up immediately.

  “Lord and Lady Dragoul,” Sir Geoffroi addressed the noble couple, “I shall take you through Castle Baultain’s illustrious cellar…”

  “Wait, Sir Geoffroi,” asked Isabeau. “I need you to answer one question, and be honest with me: Was that burnt-out town we rode through real?”

  Sir Geoffroi shook his head. “It was cobbled together from an already abandoned village and I lit some fires in it, spilled some peacock’s blood I obtained from the cooks on the trail, and left one of Martha’s old shoes from when she was a child nearby. I did just as the Duchess asked of me. The intention was to show Sir Blaise the supposedly dire consequences of avoiding the union and try to change his mind.”

  “I’ll say that it worked for Blaise,” Isabeau replied, lips turning up in a grin, “but Sir Tancred saw right through you, Sir Geoffroi. I think Lord and Lady Dragoul can see now that their would-be in-laws are a bunch of liars.”

  “It seems so,” grumbled Lord Dragoul.

  “Worry not, Lord Dragoul,” Sir Geoffroi reassured Blaise’s father, “I shall escort you back to your carriage.” —He turned to Isabeau— “Isabeau, return to Martha and try to come up with some sort of distraction for the Duchess while I lead the Dragouls and their attendants out.”

  With a nod, Sir Geoffroi ushered Blaise’s parents towards the door to their escape from this treacherous wedding. Isabeau returned his nod and made her way back to the feasting tables. Gazing over the crowd once more, she found Martha sitting back at the table claimed by Blaise and Sir Tancred. She imagined the young noblewoman likely gave her grandmother an excuse such as that she “wanted to sit by her beloved” or something of equal effect.

  “Blaise’s parents are on their way out,” said Isabeau as she sat down.

  “Thank you, Isabeau,” said Blaise. “I truly owe you and Sir Geoffroi a favor for my parents’ safety.”

  “Your dad’s really not as dignified as I’d thought.”

  Isabeau took another sip of her soup; a deliberate attempt to appear as if things were normal and she hadn’t just assisted in stopping the wedding from happening. The soup, however, was even less impressive now that it had gone cold. Martha noticed her displeasure and took the bowl from her.

  “So, what is the next phase of this plan?” asked Sir Tancred.

  “Sir Geoffroi said we need to come up with a distraction,” Isabeau whispered.

  “I think,” said Martha, “We can leave this place without stoking my grandmother’s wrath if Sir Tancred keeps my grandmother busy.”

  “That I can do, despite the pain of it,” offered Sir Tancred.

  “There is the Black Knight I have heard so much of,” Martha said with a smile. “She really likes you. It’s disgusting.”

  “What are you going to do, Sir Tancred?” asked Isabeau. “Do you need me to help?”

  “No, my child. I know Her Grace could not resist a good song, and there is one that everyone at this wedding should know and be able to sing along with.”

  Isabeau watched while Sir Tancred rose from his seat, obtained a goblet of wine, and went to the table the Duchess occupied along with the Pryvdane diplomat and Lord Oscar, Martha’s spoiled uncle. Isabeau saw him speak a bit with those seated and receive a nod from the Duchess. It didn’t take long before she heard her mentor’s rich voice calling out to the audience.

  “This is a song about the first knights, the Flaxen Crusaders,” he declared. “If you know it, do sing along.” So he began:

  “Twelve days, twelve nights, we rode from our home,

  To the shadow of God’s Ring.

  Our martyr in flaxen scales is he,

  Burned in the gold of kings.”

  Sir Tancred smiled as the guests began to sing along to the next verse.

  “Hark, hark, the Dragon soars,

  His Flame shall guide our way.

  As we trek across Ring-shadowed land

  Our swords shall win this day.”

  Then, just as Sir Tancred began to sing the third verse of the song, there was a crash as the man in the blue hooded cloak that Isabeau had seen at one of the tables before grabbed one of the guests there on Blaise’s behalf and restrained him with an arm over the neck. To their right, Isabeau saw Sir Geoffroi standing tense, sword drawn. He’d likely just returned from sending another guest out through the cellar.

  “Stop this infernal singing at once!” the blue-hooded man shouted. His voice made Isabeau freeze. It sounded familiar, but she couldn’t quite put together where she’d heard it before.

  “What is the matter with you, Sir Perceval?” shouted the Duchess. “There is to be no brawling in my banquet hall!”

  No, Isabeau’s thoughts raced with panic. Why is Cyran here?

  “Your granddaughter and knight are conspiring against you, Your Grace. I just caught Sir Geoffroi trying to lead one of the guests who came with the Dragouls out through the cellar, and Lord and Lady Dragoul are gone!”

  “Thank you, Sir Perceval,” replied the Duchess, her voice taking on a colder tone.

  “Martha,” she said, her voice like ice. Cyran, or “Sir Perceval” as she called him, threw the guest to his homunculus companion and walked forward, pulling down his hood. He certainly looked older than the last time Isabeau had seen him, but she still recognized him. Wavy dark hair, the most soulless pale blue eyes that looked almost silver the way the light hit them. The same eyes that watched her with no remorse while he made her suffer.

  “Martha,” the Duchess repeated, “you organized this plot against me, didn’t you?”

  The guests spoke to each other uncomfortably. Isabeau, Blaise, and Sir Tancred stood ready as the high-stakes plot began to unravel.

  “I did,” said Martha. “Go ahead, do what you will to me, but this wedding was only held so you could kill your rivals and take what’s theirs.”

  The guests began to panic, some rushing for the doors. Cyran drew his sword and cut one down. His new homunculus cackled like a demon and used the guest she once restrained as a bludgeon against another, swinging him by the leg into another guest’s head. The whole room burst into chaos.

  Isabeau’s legs felt like they were frozen in place, and she couldn’t move. She felt a tear roll down her cheek and Martha shaking her to try to get her moving.

  “Isabeau,” Martha shouted, “Please, come with me. Sir Tancred’s—”

  Cyran rushed at Martha, sword poised to remove her head. Sir Geoffroi tackled him to the ground and they rolled out of Isabeau’s sight as Martha pulled her away. Sir Tancred and Blaise soon followed them, now a bit bloodied and carrying swords they’d picked up from fallen mercenary soldiers employed by the Baultains. Isabeau slowly came back to her senses and saw the Duchess scrambling forward with a bloody table knife in her hand. She ranted like a madwoman as she approached.

  “Go on, Martha, say it. Tell everyone how cruel I am. Tell them of my ambition.”

  “I…”

  “Tell them.”

  “Get back, Your Grace,” Isabeau pleaded. “You don’t want to do this.”

  “Grandmother, stop,” Martha begged.

  “Let my apprentice be,” Sir Tancred insisted, “or I will have to act.”

  No, Isabeau couldn’t let him do that for her. If he made a move against the Duchess it would be far more a stain on one like him as opposed to her own non-existent reputation. He’d done so much to prove himself a good man and an even greater knight.

  Isabeau watched closely at the scene unfolding. Sir Tancred’s attempts at encouraging peace, Sir Geoffroi’s brave showdown with Cyran, Blaise’s panic, and Martha’s horror. The Duchess continued to eye her like a cat eyeing a mouse or some other vermin that had made its presence known in her home.

  The Duchess let out a wordless cry of rage, coming for Isabeau with the knife. Even if it was a bluff, or the Duchess truly did intend to use Isabeau as a scapegoat for the failure of her plot to kill Blaise and his family, Isabeau could take no more chances. She and multiple others warned the Duchess of what was coming. In one swift movement, Isabeau’s Executioner-Knights training took over. Her left hand reached out to grab the Duchess’s wrist and twist the knife from the old woman’s hand. Her right lashed out, and her fist collided hard with the Duchess’s jaw. The old crone flew with a splash of blood trailing from her mouth and smashed right through the table behind her. Following the crash, the room was deadly silent. People stopped and watched to see if the Duchess had survived.

  “Mother!” Lord Oscar wailed. He ran over to check on his injured mother, who coughed a few times. He clenched his fists, tears in his eyes, and called for the attack to resume.

  “For Urgonde,” he roared, “For the Duchess!”

  The bloody, animalistic fight resumed as if there had been no interruption.

  The punch heard 'round the world...