Chapter 3

  The white walls of Castle Baultain gleamed ahead, beckoning its guests onward to the coming festivities. As Isabeau left Blaise’s carriage behind, she couldn’t help but admit to herself that she found the fortress impressive. It was also armed to the teeth; Isabeau could see the silhouettes of soldiers upon the walls above. Isabeau followed Sir Tancred and Blaise uphill towards the gates, where a small gathering stood. She could see Lord Dragoul, Blaise’s father and the ruler of his house’s home castle in his black-and-yellow journade, and Blaise’s mother Lady Dragoul standing beside him in her finest silks. To their right stood an old, regal-looking woman in a blue dress, a lot of powder on her face, and probably one of the most complicated headdresses Isabeau had ever seen. Something about her face seemed familiar, but Isabeau couldn’t remember where from. She hadn’t seen that supposed painting of Martha in a good few weeks, so she had no reliable reference.

  “Son,” Blaise’s father addressed him curtly, “I am—” his wife nudged him, and he forced a smile, “—delighted that you appear to have changed your mind about your arrangement.”

  “Good evening, Mother,” Blaise replied, “Father.”

  “Sir Tancred,” the Castellan of Dragoul gave the knight a nod. “I should have expected that my son would choose you to be his support at his wedding. Duchess Clotilda, you have heard many a tale of the Black Knight’s exploits during the war, have you not?”

  Isabeau watched the elderly woman who had been conversing with Blaise’s parents as she gave her mentor a closer look and appeared to like what she saw very much. Isabeau wanted to barf.

  “So you are Sir Tancred?” the Duchess purred, getting uncomfortably close to him. “My, you are even finer a specimen of a knight than any of the stories could have described.”

  Isabeau’s mouth fell open as she watched Sir Tancred take the old matriarch’s hand and kiss it. In that moment, she made a note to herself that of all the things she hadn’t wanted to see at this party, it was the sight of two old people flirting.

  What in the world are you doing, Sir Tancred?!

  “And you, Your Grace,” said Sir Tancred as his lips left the top of the hand of Martha’s grandmother, “look regal this evening. I am not here as Sir Blaise’s support tonight, as you may have thought. I am here to maintain the peace and to observe the one who has been given that honor.”

  “This is Isabeau,” Blaise introduced her, “Sir Tancred’s ward and my dear friend.”

  “Good evening, lords and ladies,” Isabeau said with a curtsy. She’d hoped she’d gotten that right and that simply imitating the Countess back home had been enough.

  “Oh,” the Duchess said flatly, turning aside and lightly flapping her fan. “That’s interesting. I thought the homunculus was here to carry Sir Blaise’s things, but it is…admirable that he values it enough to bring it to attend my ceremony.”

  Isabeau shot Sir Geoffroi a dirty look for leading her on that this woman was supposedly a friend to her kind. He shrugged, looking very confused as to why she was glaring at him. The knight awkwardly made his way over to the Duchess’s side and offered her his arm.

  “Your Grace,” said Blaise, “I do not wish to impose or to sound rude, but I assure you that Isabeau is worthy of your respect. She has been a valuable asset to the Executioner-Knights.” Sir Tancred also provided his support, nodding and folding his arms.

  “Very well,” she huffed, “but if we spend much more time out here debating on the rights of alchemical constructs, the entremets shall get cold and my granddaughter will be left waiting for her ring. Let us go to the banquet hall for some entertainment before we officially unite the houses of Dragoul and Baultain.”

  Isabeau followed the others as the drawbridge to the castle lowered and they crossed the moat to the castle keep. As they walked, Isabeau felt Sir Tancred nudging her.

  “Hm?” She asked.

  “I think we are in for a challenging night ahead, my child,” he spoke low enough for just her to hear. “A night of a Duchess most difficult to please, and I having to work a charm I haven’t had to use in years to ensure we keep our heads. I do ask one big favor of you.”

  “What is it?” Isabeau glanced towards him.

  “It will take a heavy toll upon my mind and soul to even pretend that I find that woman desirable. Should my stomach finally falter…please take me somewhere away from the crowd and hold back my beard.”

  ***

  The Duchess of Urgonde and Sir Geoffroi led Blaise and his guests into the keep’s banquet hall, a candlelit room with a magnificent chandelier hanging above. Ceiling frescoes depicted scenes of the Baultain family’s storied history above walls of blue trimmed with white marble. One of the walls bore a painting that piqued Isabeau’s interest, and she made her way over to look at it. The scene was of a great battle, one between knights bearing the heraldry of the Dragouls, the Baultains, and other families of reputation against the forces of an ancient, alchemical foe.

  This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

  “Looking at that painting of the Flaxen Crusade?” she heard Blaise asking from behind her. She turned towards him.

  “So that’s what this battle is?” she asked, looking at a signature in the corner nearest to her.

  “Indeed,” Blaise replied, tracing his finger over the shield of his depicted ancestor. “Many of noble blood can trace their lineage, or at least claim to, back to one of the knights who led the crusade against the ancient empire of the Great Alchemists. My ancestor was a personal witness to the martyrdom of the Dragon in Flaxen Scales, and it inspired him to fight back against the ones who had ordered the death of our first saint.”

  “That’s good and all, Blaise,” Isabeau replied, “but look at the signature. M. Baultain.”

  “M…as in Martha?” Blaise lowered his voice as he seemed to notice his future grandmother-in-law coming closer.

  “No, M for Moron,” Isabeau spat. “Yes, Martha.” She quickly re-composed herself and did her best to look less agitated as the Duchess invaded her way into the space between her and Blaise.

  “My granddaughter is quite the painter, is she not?” the Duchess insisted. Her sudden arrival had startled Isabeau, but she and Blaise tried to look as warm as possible when she arrived.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” said Blaise, “Lady Martha certainly has some talent. I am not much of an artist myself, but I can appreciate true skill when I see it.”

  “I am sure she will be glad to hear you like her work,” Martha’s grandmother replied, offering a small bowl of olives Blaise’s and Isabeau’s way. Blaise gladly took one; Isabeau tried her best to not grimace in the Lady’s presence. She hated olives, which was ironic considering that she grew up in one of the biggest olive-producing regions on the whole continent of Agenoria.

  “I imported these olives from one of the best groves in your county,” the Duchess boasted, “so you would feel more at home in my castle.” She practically pushed the bowl of olives at Isabeau, who hesitated to take one. Isabeau thought it was a little odd that olives specifically from Lebre had been brought to this occasion when she’d seen grove upon grove of olive trees on the way here, but then she realized what the Lady meant to imply. It wasn’t just necessarily a gesture of appreciation for the land she wished to unite with hers, but also a show of her wealth that she could spend money importing something that she already had in abundance.

  “Sir Tancred told me,” the Duchess asserted, “That olives are a favorite of yours, Isabeau. Go on, take one.”

  Isabeau waited to see if Blaise, who knew the truth about her taste for olives, would step in to rescue her from this humiliation. Instead, he stood there with a tense, uncertain look on his face. He gulped. Isabeau had no choice but to take an olive and choke it down, feigning her enjoyment.

  “It seems he was right,” said the Duchess as she lent a sneer Isabeau’s way.

  I’ll show you what’s right, you old bitch, Isabeau thought, glaring the old noblewoman down as she turned to mingle with some other guests. Before Her Grace could fully depart, however, Blaise called to her.

  “My Duchess,” he asked, putting on a fake show of eagerness, “will Martha be coming to meet us soon? I greatly look forward to finally meeting her in person.”

  “She has been a bit nervous,” the old noblewoman replied, “but it is about time she came down to thank the guests for coming…and for the ceremony to make its way to the chapel.”

  The Duchess ascended a staircase, presumably to retrieve the granddaughter to whom Blaise would soon have to deliver his proposal. Isabeau discreetly put an ear to the wall, to see if she could hear any arguments or abuse coming from upstairs. Unfortunately, the walls appeared too thick for her to eavesdrop.

  “You know, Isabeau,” Blaise whispered, “now that I’ve seen the lady up close, I do think your theory about the portrait has some merit.”

  “And I hope,” she replied, “our attempt to help you out of this mess has some merit, or you might just be fucked.”

  Isabeau and Blaise turned their attention back to the painting. Isabeau tried to make note of the style, the brush strokes, and even the details on the faces of the figures in battle, but try as she might again, it had just been too long since she’d had that brief glimpse of the marriage portrait. She could only vaguely remember that the supposed Martha in the portrait looked ugly and far too old.

  “Blaise,” she told her friend, “I want you to think back, and think hard, now. Look at the painting and tell me if you think the style looks like the one that was sent to you.”

  “Hmm,” the young knight hummed, “I could give you a far more reliable answer if I had that ghastly picture sitting side-by-side to this one, but I do see some familiarity in the brush strokes. It seems Martha enjoys showing the texture of her paint. The strokes are as if in a sketch, but they add a sort of dynamism and suggestion of frantic motion of battle in this piece.”

  “I have no idea what that means,” Isabeau replied, “but I’m glad you’re able to see something, there.”

  After her brief disappearance upstairs, the Duchess descended the staircase and approached a nearby podium. She picked up a bell that rested upon it and rang it to alert the guests. Everyone turned their attention her way and put their conversations and scheming for favors on hold.

  “I hope all of you are enjoying the sights and art within this wonderful hall,” she called out, “but the main event only has yet to begin. I present to you, my granddaughter, Lady Martha of the House of Baultain.” She rang the bell a second time, scowling when Martha didn’t come. She rang it again, this time more forcefully. Isabeau’s enhanced hearing picked up on a “Get down here, Martha!” growled quietly through the grandmother’s teeth.

  A young woman with very long, dark brown hair and dressed in an elegant blue gown descended the staircase. She kept her head down, each step down the stairs performed with noticeable reluctance. Isabeau caught glimpses of a forlorn look on the girl’s long, somewhat thin face. She looked nothing like the portrait, and it only cemented it further in Isabeau’s mind that Martha wanted none of this and had painted the portrait the way she did to either keep Blaise away or as a cry for help. Isabeau began to feel sympathy for Martha and looked to Blaise to see his reaction as Martha walked past her grandmother without a word. Isabeau noticed Sir Geoffroi giving the young woman a sympathetic look of his own. Isabeau was released from her stream of thoughts once she felt Blaise lightly elbowing her.

  “Isabeau,” he whispered, “Do you see the look on her face? Something is very wrong.”

  “I know,” Isabeau replied. She inhaled deeply through her nose and slowly let it out through her mouth. It was going to take all her concentration to not act to save the poor girl, but she knew that if there would be any favorable outcomes tonight for anyone but the Duchess, she would have to sit tight, observe, and let Blaise and Sir Tancred take the lead. She couldn’t afford to act as anything other than a proper lady, no matter how hard of a time she was already having. Isabeau struggled to not make assumptions about what she saw before her. In Martha she saw herself a few years prior, living miserably under the roof of Baron Perceval at that rotten abandoned manor. Situations like this made Isabeau seethe with anger, but she couldn’t act out, not at as delicate of an occasion as this.

  Remain calm, Isabeau. Remain calm…

  The Black Knight's Homunculus, It will become necessary to move into other points of view aside from Isabeau's. Next week we'll be seeing how Loren is doing in his new job helping to run the Executioner-Knights' arms and alchemy shop...and hear a bit about someone from his past who will also play an important role in the events to come.