Beady black eyes scrutinizing the guests seated at the majestic oak table, Isnard hissed, “With a royal decree ofnoblesse chevalresque,King Guillemin has ennobled Sir Bastien de Landuc. Bestowing upon him the title of Marquis and bequeathing the fiefdom ofla Cornouailleandle Château de Concarneau. As we speak, his royal messenger is en route to Paris with the official proclamation to be authenticated byle Parlement de Parisand King Philippe inle Palais-Royal.”
Seething with frustrated fury, Ugolin shot to his feet. “Asle Marquis de Cornouaille, Bastien de Landuc will be eligible to compete in the Yuletide Joust.” He strode to the oceanfront window, the crashing waves evoking the rage in his bitter soul. “De Landuc is the Master of Horse at Beaufort. Trained by the legendaryLancelot du Lac.”He spun to glare at Tréguier. “He will be your competitor in the final round.” Shaking with furor, Ugolin slapped his palms flat on the table and leaned menacingly into Tréguier’s scarred, wary face. “Poison his horse. Charge with a sharpened lance. Kill the bloody bastard.” He pushed away in indignant ire, rolled his head across his shoulders, and grabbed his goblet, sloshing the liquid over his quavering hand. Draining the contents in one long pull, he slammed the empty chalice down on the tablet, his anger echoing across the silent room.
“You say the messenger is en route to Paris as we speak?” The velvety voice of Onfroi, theVicomte de Vannes,broke the unsettling stillness.
Isnard responded to the elegantly attired, shrewd nobleman seated beside Ugolin’s pensive father. “Yes, as I was preparing to exit the castle this morning—ostensibly to fetch more herbs for the king’s ongoing treatment—I saw the messenger ride away in great haste. I overheard him say he expected to arrive in Paris within two days.”
Lord Onfroi remarked coyly, “I had planned to depart for Paris tomorrow. My wife Clothilde and her extravagant coterie of fine ladies expect me to escort them tole Château de Beaufortas noble spectators for the Yuletide Joust.” His narrowed eyes glinted with cunning and malice. “However, in light of Lord Isnard’s startling revelation, I shall instead leave at once, sending my men ahead to intercept King Guillemin’s decree of nobility for Sir Bastien de Landuc.” A predatory grin stretched slowly across thevicomte’sserpentine face. “My riders will divert the delivery of that missive tola Tour Kerloch,rather thanle Parlement de Parison theÎle de la Cité.”Onfroi smiled snidely, the delicate lace of the jabot at his neck a sharp contrast to the ruthless sneer on his hardened, wizened face. “If, against all odds. Sir Bastien de Landuc should miraculously prevail in the Yuletide Joust, you will simply demand that King Guillemin produce the official decree of the champion’s title of nobility. Which, of course, he shall be unable to do. Since you, Ugolin le Clou, shall possess that precious document.”
Malicious delight glowed in his veins. Ugolin grinned greedily, motioning for the obedient servant to refill the goblets of mead. When the task was complete, he raised his pewter chalice in tribute, proposing a triumphant toast. “To Lord Onfroi,le Vicomte de Vannes. For his magnificent stratagem. The perfect ploy to guarantee my win of the Yuletide Joust. A flawless gambit for me to become the future King of Finistère.”
Chapter 11
Preparations for the Yuletide Joust
La Duchesse de Rohansat in an ornately carved, blue velvet, tufted chair in the elegant antechamber of her royal quarters inle Palais de la Citéof Paris, sipping chamomile tea with her three female companions. Servants were packing their belongings in preparation for the upcoming voyage, when Béatrice would travel with the present trio of ladies to the oceanfront kingdom of Finistère to attend the Yuletide Joust. Pensively sipping hertisane,Gabrielle’s great-aunt listened attentively to the court gossip her acquaintances were breathlessly eager to share.
Pinched face white with powdered pomade, Agnès—la Marquise de Josselin—remarked with scandalous delight, “The entire court is ablaze with the news of the attempted abduction of Princess Gabrielle. Imagine, armed men swooping out of the forest like hawks on horseback to ferret her away!”
Françoise, the rotundComtesse de Ploudry, adjusted the strained seams of her pink satin gown. “And to think that the Master of Horse defended her against such an army! It is most fortunate that your nephew King Guillemin appointed him as her royal personal guard, Béatrice.”
“Indeed,” Béatrice agreed, setting her teacup down on the lace-covered table. “Sir Bastien de Landuc is not only a most capable horseman, but a superior swordsman as well. It is most fitting that the king should reward such valor with a fiefdom, a castle, andla noblesse chevaleresque.” She smiled proudly at Françoise. “Perhaps Sir Bastien de Landuc, the newly titledMarquis de Cornouaille, will win the Yuletide Joust. And Princess Gabrielle’s hand in marriage.” Béatrice smoothed her blue gown, slanting a covert glance at Clothilde,la Vicomtesse de Vannes, whose disdainful countenance clearly displayed her dissenting opinion of the matter.
La Vicomtesseclutched her porcelain teacup with skeletal claws, her dark, cunning eyes glinting with gleeful malice. “That, dear Béatrice, will never happen.” Clothilde grinned wickedly, like a clever cat who had just snared an unsuspecting mouse.
Agnès, eager to impart her most impressive point of view, quipped enthusiastically: “He might very well triumph in the tournament, Clothilde. Rumor has it that Bastien de Landuc was trained by the legendaryLancelot du Lac, the greatest jousting champion in the entire realm.” The pointed little teeth of her insincere smile yellowed in contrast with her artificially whitenedvisageas she haughtily observedthe viciousvicomtesse.
A corner of Clothilde’s thin, pursed mouth curved upward in a sardonic smirk, her gaunt cheeks wrinkling like crinkled parchment paper. “Bastien de Landuc will never win the Yuletide Joust. Ugolin le Clou has made certain of that.” She sipped her tea with smug satisfaction while her noble counterparts shared curious, surprised glances.
“Whatever do you mean, dear Clothilde?” Françoise exhaled excitedly, salivating at the salacious tidbit. “King Guillemin sent the royallettres patenteslast week. It is certain theParlement de Parishas sanctioned the document and returned the approved, official decree tole Château de Beaufort.With plenty of time for Sir Bastien to qualify as a contestant in the Yuletide Joust.”
La Vicomtesse de Vannescould scarcely contain herself. “King Guillemin’s proclamation never reachedle Parlement de Paris.”The harpy leaned back in her tufted chair, a sanguine serpent confident of the vigor of its venom. “My husband’s men intercepted that missive en route to Paris.” She savored the tea sweetened by the sting of her waspish words, gloating with pernicious pleasure. “Even if Sir Bastien de Landuc were indeed capable of claiming victory in the Yuletide Joust, Ugolin le Clou will prevent him from entering the competition. He’ll insist on documentation of Sir Bastien’s nobility, which King Guillemin will be unable to provide. Sir Bastien will be ridiculed and disqualified as a mere knight impersonating a titled nobleman. A candidate unworthy of Princess Gabrielle’s royal hand.” Clothilde positively purred. “Ugolin le Clou shall triumph, as always. He shall win the Yuletide Joust. Marry the beautiful princess. And be crowned the King of Finistère.”
Béatrice nearly choked on her tisane.Clothilde’s husband intercepted Guillemin’s lettres patentes? The document never reached King Philippe or le Parlement de Paris?She had to act quickly. The Yuletide Joust would begin in seven days. Béatrice knew how much her great-niece adored the handsome Bastien de Landuc. And how the magnificent Master of Horse atle Château de Beaufortloved the emerald-eyed, flame-haired Gabrielle. She had to get an urgent message to her nephew.
Before it was too late.
Rising from her velvet tufted chair, her hand protectively clutching her abdomen, Béatrice whimpered as if in pain. “Please excuse me,mes chères,but I must visit the garderobe. Perhaps the tisane disagreed with me.” She motioned for an attendant to serve the sumptuous pastries she had ordered from the palace kitchen. “In the meantime, please enjoyles pâtisseries.I’ll return shortly.”
Feigning stomach distress, Béatrice slipped from the parlor and darted down the long hall where embroidered tapestries decorated the wooden walls. Spotting an attendant waiting outside the door to an empty parlor, she beckoned the obedient servant to follow as she slid inside. “Fetch me parchment paper, a quill and ink, and wax to seal the document. Order a royal messenger to saddle a horse for immediate departure. Be discreet. Thecommuniquéis confidential. No one must see him leave.”
Eyes widened in wonder, the reliable attendant nodded earnestly and bowed with reverence. “Oui, Madame la Duchesse.À vos ordres.”
Several minutes later, the flustered valet returned with the requested items and the royal messenger. Leaning over a marble topped gilded table, Béatrice quickly penned a message, sealing the document and embossing the wax with her signet ring. She handed the scroll to the trusted envoy who had accompanied the valet. “Deliver this personally to King Guillemin of Finistère. Ride hard, change horses as necessary.” Béatrice placed a bag of silver in the messenger’s gloved hand. “This missive must reach the king within two days. Return to Paris with the document he will entrust in your care. I shall compensate you handsomely for your diligence and discretion. Depart at once.”
“Oui, Madame la Duchesse.You have my solemn vow.” The messenger tucked the scroll safely inside the leather pouch strapped across his torso, bowed inobéisancebefore Béatrice, and swiftly slipped down the stone stairs to the lower level of the palace.
“Mention this to no one.” Béatrice placed several silver coins into the valet’s palm, wrapping his fingers over the small fortune.
“I give you my word,Madame la Duchesse,”the servant murmured breathlessly. “Thank you for your generosity.”
Béatrice ducked her chin in acknowledgement and strode down the hall toward the antechamber where her trio of traveling companions anticipated her return. At the entrance door, she inhaled deeply to regain her composure.
And whispered a silent prayer that her nephew Guillemin would receive the urgent message in time.
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One week after the attempted abduction of Princess Gabrielle, Bastien’s father, Sir Esclados le Ros, arrived atle Château de Beaufortwith two dozen knights from Landuc, several grooms, and twenty magnificent Friesian and Ardennes horses for the Yuletide Joust. Accompanying Sir Esclados and his entourage were ten-year-old stable hand Quentin and his younger companion Gaston, thrilled to be involved in caring for the destriers and overjoyed at the prospect of meeting the legendaryLancelot du Lac, expected to arrive the following day.
