The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(13)

Kit, sitting across from the board, laughed. “Stephen is awful at chess. Which might tell you something about the state of his military tactics.” He ducked as his brother threw an embroidered pillow at him.

Felix remained unconvinced. “You can’t tell me you’d rather play chess than fight.”

Kit grinned, for there were parts of Felix that reminded him of himself when young. He had also been restless and easily bored. “Finish this game,” he promised the boy, “and we’ll practice throwing knives after.”

“Don’t spoil him,” Stephen said over his shoulder.

That was a laugh. If anyone spoiled Felix, it was Stephen. Once it might have made Kit jealous, how devotedly the twelve-year-old hung on Stephen’s every word and action. Felix liked Kit, but the boy worshipped Stephen. Since Kit had learned both to appreciate his brother and to be certain of his own skills in the last few years, it did not bite as it once might have.

For all his complaining, Felix was a good chess player. Kit was better. He made the boy work the length and width of the board before finally cornering his king. “Checkmate.”

Felix bounced up, gladly conceding. “Knives,” he demanded.

The house was quiet as they passed through. Renaud had been gone for nearly two weeks, on a visit whose purpose he had kept obscured from the household. With just the Courtenays and Felix in residence, much of the staff had been given leave, including the men-at-arms. Kit and Felix left the echoing corridors of the chateau and went to the armory to claim practice knives.

The arms master and Renaud’s personal soldiers had traveled with him, so the only one to greet them was the previous arms master, a Scot named Duncan Murray. For more than a hundred years Scotsmen had come to France to fight—the King’s Scots Archers were known all over Europe—and it was not unusual to come across them in unexpected places.

Murray was an old man now, seventy if he was a day, but despite his gnarled hands and slower step, he still looked strong as an ox. Gruff as ever, he studied Felix with care, inspecting his hands and arms, before choosing the knives for the boy.

“Want to watch?” Felix asked the old man.

“Watch what? The two of you showing off for each other? I had enough of that with your father and uncle. And your grandfather before that.”

Felix’s face darkened. “I am nothing like my father.” He turned abruptly on his heel and stalked away, leaving Murray to shake his head and Kit to draw a deep breath and follow.

Felix was not inclined to talk. They took turns throwing the knives at the thick wooden plank scored with marks from previous throws. Kit gave a few pointers to Felix but otherwise kept his mouth shut.

It was Felix who finally broke the silence. “You knew my father.”

In all Kit’s time at Blanclair, Felix had never spoken directly of Nicolas LeClerc. The surprise of it knocked Kit off balance in more ways than one, and his next throw bit the wood wide of the target. “I met him,” he replied cautiously. “Spent several days riding in his company.”

Felix’s throw was dead center. “Do you think I’m like him at all?”

The tall, lanky twelve-year-old anything like the fanatic, slightly mad, and wholly self-centered killer who had taken Kit’s sister and the Princess of Wales hostage? What was he supposed to say to that?

“I know,” the boy said, dropping his arm and turning to face Kit, “that I don’t look like him. I look like my mother. Or so I’m told. I just meant…” He struggled for words, then flung his arms wide as if in appeal.

“I know what you meant,” Kit said, and put his hands on the boy’s shoulders. Slowly, Felix relaxed. “I think your father made choices. We all do. Often, we make the wrong ones. But I see no signs that you will make the kinds of choices he did—the kind that cause such destruction.”

“The kind of choices that force your own brother to kill you?” Felix asked with brittle composure. “I suppose it’s as well I’m an only child, so it cannot be put to the test.”

Where was Stephen? Kit wondered. He was so much better at this sort of thing than he was. “Look, Felix, if you feel compelled to understand your father, why not ask your grandfather or uncle?”

“Grandfather does not care to be reminded. And Julien?” Felix shrugged. “Julien left.”

As clear as though he’d shouted it, the last word of that statement hung in the air: Julien left me.

“You know that your grandfather’s asked me to take you to England in the spring for a visit. It will be good for you to spend time with Julien and Lucette. I think they might have some of the answers you are looking for.”

“I doubt it. And anyway, I’m not going to England.”

“So eager to be relieved of my company?” Kit tried to tease.

“I do not want to see Julien or your sister. Why should I? She promised to marry my father. I thought that when they all came back, I would have a mother. But no one came back, save my uncle. And only long enough to ruin my life. Julien killed my father and Lucette married him as reward. Why would I want to see either of them?”

The words might have been adult—Kit suspected rehearsed many times—but the voice, already shaky, broke more than once. And there were tears standing in Felix’s eyes.

Kit shivered, but from an instinct to treat the boy as he would have wished to be treated, he let the moment pass without pushing. Better to think on it and decide how best to approach Felix’s pain. He tried not to feel that he was simply taking the coward’s way out…