Unveiling Lady Clare

by Carol Townend

  ‘And if either you or Nicola need help, you mustn’t hesitate to send for me. Leave word at the garrison gate—’ He broke off, shaking his head. ‘Where did you say you were from?’

  Clare’s heart missed a beat. The dark eyes might look kind, but she wasn’t going to admit to being a runaway slave. Men, as she had learned to her cost, reacted badly when they found out. Even the best of them tried to take advantage. And Sir Arthur, as that little exchange with the girl outside the Black Boar had proved, was no better than the rest. This was a man who enjoyed women.

  Geoffrey had been different. Geoffrey, God rest him, had never tried to take advantage of her, which was why she had loved him. Geoffrey would have her loyalty till her dying day.

  ‘I spent many years abroad, sir. I do not rightly know where I was born.’ She gave him another bright smile. ‘It seems likely I am baseborn.’

  That dark, unsettling gaze ran over her, lingering in a puzzled way on a wisp of hair winding waywardly out of her hood; studying her eyes, first the grey, then the green.

  She gave a light laugh. ‘I certainly felt out of place on the ladies’ stand.’

  ‘Count Lucien invited you, you had every right to be there.’

  His hand slid up her arm and his fingers tightened. A frisson of awareness ran down every nerve. Disturbing. Exciting. And that was beyond strange, since Clare hated men touching her. He gave her the most charming of bows.

  ‘I, for one, am glad to have met you. Although...’ he paused ‘...your features do seem familiar. I would swear we must have met before.’

  ‘Likely you saw me at Geoffrey’s funeral.’

  ‘I didn’t see your eyes and they are familiar...’

  Clare shook her head and pulled free. ‘You must be mistaken.’ As she dipped into a swift curtsy, she saw Nell skipping into their lodgings. ‘There’s Nell, sir, I had best be going.’

  ‘Remember what I said. Send for me if you need assistance.’ He leaned towards her. ‘Send for me if you recall anything Geoffrey might have said.’

  ‘I won’t forget, sir.’ Twisting away, Clare hurried down the street.

  The Captain of the Guardian Knights was altogether too disturbing. He saw too much. And if he thought she’d be leaving messages at the garrison gatehouse, he could think again. She wanted peace and quiet. Attention from the Captain of the Guardian Knights was the last thing she needed.

  Chapter Three

  The girl, Clare, lingered in Arthur’s mind as he strode back to Troyes Castle. Her image wouldn’t shift from his brain—a small, slight girl with auburn hair and mismatched eyes. Mismatch. Who was she? Why did he feel he was missing some vital connection? Why did he feel that he should be better able to place her?

  Arthur found no answer, even though tendrils of auburn hair twined in and out of his thoughts as he went to the stables and called for his squire. That faintly accented, husky voice echoed in his mind. ‘Geoffrey mentioned a cave.’

  A cave—there was a chalk cave not far from Troyes...

  ‘Ivo?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Patrol. Saddle up. You’re coming with me.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Where are we going?’

  ‘I want to study the lie of the land around that cave to the south.’

  ‘Shall I fetch your chain mail?

  ‘I only need my sword, we shan’t be making a show of ourselves. This is unofficial. Sir Raphael took the regular patrol.’

  Bright auburn tresses gleamed in the winter sun, invading Arthur’s every thought, as they trotted through the city gates. And not only her hair. Her eyes haunted him every step of the way. It was as though the fields and vineyards of Champagne were lost behind mist, the only reality was those eyes—one green, one grey. Mismatch.

  He had seen those eyes before. Where?

  No answer came while Arthur scoured the terrain about the cave. He was looking for tracks or burnt-out cooking fires. He found nothing of note but, oddly, his conviction strengthened. He had seen her before.

  ‘It will come,’ he muttered.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Ivo, have you noticed how the memory plays tricks? Sometimes when you are trying to recall something, it eludes you. And the moment you give up—’ he snapped his fingers ‘—the answer comes.’ Arthur felt himself flush. He must sound like a madman.

  Ivo simply nodded sagely at him. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘It would be best if I put her out of my mind.’

  ‘Most likely, sir.’

  * * *

  None the less, Clare’s image had remained with him, accompanying him on the road that ran back to the city and into the stables. It had lingered at the back of his mind as he strode to the hall for his regular meeting with Count Henry. It even remained with him that evening as he pushed through the door of the Black Boar and Gabrielle swayed towards him, all bosom and big eyes.

  ‘Sir Arthur! What a pleasure to see you.’

  Most irritating of all, Clare’s image did not leave him as he wound his arm round Gabrielle’s soft waist and leaned in to kiss her.

  Mon Dieu! Why could he not remember?

  * * *

  The answer came the next day. Unfortunately, it came as Arthur was discussing the redeployment of his men with Count Henry in the solar of Troyes Castle.

  The Comte was sitting behind an array of quills and ink-pots. He had been going through his accounts, and scrolls and parchment littered the worktable like autumn leaves. He nudged a stool in Arthur’s direction. ‘Take a seat, Sir Arthur.’

  ‘My thanks. Mon seigneur, it’s my belief a gang of outlaws are in hiding somewhere beyond the city walls,’ Arthur said, going straight to the point. ‘And with the Twelfth Night Joust behind us, Troyes is as quiet as it gets. We can expand the reach of our patrols—widen our search to the county boundaries.’

  Count Henry looked narrowly at him. ‘You’ve heard something?’

  Arthur shook his head. ‘Nothing reliable, my lord. A friend tells me that outlaws could be hiding out in a nearby cave.’

  ‘A friend?’

  Arthur was reluctant to name Clare—she had made it clear she wanted nothing to do with this business. He couldn’t blame her, Geoffrey had been killed. Further, the lad’s death meant the women of her household had been left without a protector. ‘My friend values discretion.’

  Count Henry nodded and picked up his quill. ‘I understand. You have enough men?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Very well. Let me know if you find anything.’

  ‘Of course.’ Arthur rose to leave, and checked as a name came crashing in on him. A name and a pair of eyes that mirrored Clare’s. ‘Count Myrrdin de Fontaine,’ he muttered. Mon Dieu! Could Clare be Count Myrrdin’s daughter? A by-blow, of course.

  Count Henry fiddled with his quill. ‘Count Myrrdin? What of him? I haven’t seen him in years.’

  Arthur shook his head. His gaze was fixed on Count Henry’s ink-pot, but he wasn’t seeing it. He was seeing those mismatched eyes. ‘It’s the eyes,’ he said.

  ‘The eyes?’ Count Henry frowned, then his brow cleared. ‘Ah, yes, I remember. Count Myrrdin has odd eyes. Blue and grey.’

  ‘Green and grey, actually, my lord.’

  Count Henry twirled the quill between finger and thumb. ‘He was a very distinguished warrior in his day, although I’ve heard that he’s become something of a recluse. It’s years since he’s left Brittany. What brought him to mind?’

  ‘There’s a girl in Troyes—I saw her at the joust. She has his eyes.’

  The quill went still and Count Henry leaned forwards, a line between his brows. ‘A girl? Are you certain she has Count Myrrdin’s eyes?’

  ‘She could be his baseborn daughter,’ Arthur said, his conviction strengtheni
ng with every moment. ‘I thought I’d met her before and took time to make the connection. But I hadn’t met her, I’d met her father. She’s Count Myrrdin’s daughter, I know it.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Lord, I’ve no idea. Eighteen? Nineteen?’

  ‘She can’t be Count Myrrdin’s get. He’s not known to be profligate with women. Since his wife died, well, the man might as well have taken Holy Orders, he’s chaste as a monk.’ The Count set the quill back in the ink-pot and leaned back. ‘I want to see this girl. Bring her here.’

  Arthur hesitated. He was certain Clare wouldn’t want to be brought before Count Henry. ‘Mon seigneur, is that necessary? She might be embarrassed to have her illegitimacy noised abroad.’

  Count Henry’s brow darkened. ‘What do you take me for? I’m not about to shame the girl, I want to help her. Before he turned hermit, Myrrdin de Fontaine was one of the most honourable knights in Christendom. If this girl is his daughter, illegitimate or not, he’d want to know. Where does she live?’

  ‘She shares lodgings in the town. In the merchant’s quarter.’

  ‘Bring her here. When I’ve seen her, I shall decide what’s best to do.’ Count Henry pulled one of the scrolls towards him and unrolled it. ‘Captain?’

  ‘Mon seigneur?’

  ‘Find Myrrdin’s daughter before you start ferreting about in those caves, eh?’

  ‘But, my lord, the outlaws...’

  The Count sighed. ‘Sir Raphael can take a troop to the caves. You know the girl, you bring her here.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  * * *

  Clare was walking back from the market with Nell, her basket over her arm. She had spent the day trying to convince herself that Paolo had been wrong about seeing slavers in Troyes, and had almost succeeded when she saw the two men standing under the eaves of the house next to Nicola’s.

  Sight of them turned her guts to ice. Although Nell was still jigging along beside her, chattering nineteen to the dozen, it was as though the child had been struck dumb. Clare couldn’t hear her. She couldn’t hear anything except the blood rushing in her ears.

  Ducking her head, she whipped round and affected a great interest in the carving on a nearby lintel. One of the men was unknown to her, but the other...the other...

  I am going to be sick.

  The other man was unquestionably Lorenzo da Verona, more commonly known as the Veronese. Clare hadn’t known he travelled as far from Apulia as this, but it made sense. Da Verona would cast his net wide to find slaves. The fact that it was forbidden to sell or own slaves in Champagne wouldn’t stop his evil business. Slaves could be taken from anywhere, as she herself knew. In Apulia where her master lived, Clare had crossed paths with slaves who had been captured in France, in Brittany, in the Aquitaine...

  Slavery was a trade that knew no boundaries. Da Verona’s only concern was to turn a fat profit. Clare’s master—her former master—had bought many slaves from the man standing not twelve feet behind her, herself included. Clare had no memory of her early life. She only knew of da Verona’s involvement because one day, when her master had been buying more slaves from him, her mistress had informed her that she, too, had been bought from the Veronese.

  Time seemed to slow. Da Verona mustn’t see her—he would seize her and return her to her master! She must leave Troyes today. Had she left it too late? Blessed Virgin, what would happen to Nicola? To Nell? How would they cope?

  ‘Clare, you’re not listening,’ Nell said, twitching at her skirts.

  ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’ve just realised I’ve forgotten to buy salt. Be a love and carry the basket home, will you? I shall follow when I’ve bought the salt.’

  Those men are talking about me, I know it. Lord knows how the Veronese found me, but somehow he knows where I live. There is no time. I must leave.

  Clare had hoped to stay in Troyes long enough to ensure that Nell was cared for when Nicola died. For Nicola was dying, of that there was no doubt. Every day it was more of a struggle for her to leave her cot; every day she became more drawn, more grey. Nicola might have days left, she might have weeks, it was impossible to judge. Clare had wanted to stay with them until the end, she had wanted Nell to be able to live her old normal life for as long as possible.

  ‘I can come with you to buy salt,’ Nell said.

  Blinking through a blur of tears, Clare handed Nell the basket. ‘Thank you, but that’s not necessary. Mama is waiting for these things. When you get home, I need you to start the soup for me.’ Conscious of the men at her back, Clare went down on her haunches, so as to meet Nell eye to eye. ‘Can you do that, sweetheart? Do you remember when we made barley soup?’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘Do you think you can make it on your own?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Good girl.’ Poor Nell. First she loses her brother and soon she will lose her mother. If truth be known, Clare had prayed for a few more weeks with Nicola and Nell. Living with them had been her only taste of family life and she was greedy for more. However, it would seem that God had other plans. She swallowed hard, blinked away the blur and managed a smile. ‘Off you go. Make a start on the soup. If I’m late, you can give Mama her supper. And...’ she paused ‘...this is important, sweetheart. If you get stuck with the recipe, if something happens that worries you, go straight to Aimée. Aimée will help you, she will always help you.’

  Nell looked at her as though she had grown horns. ‘I know that, silly.’

  Smile wobbling, Clare straightened and made a shooing gesture with her hands.

  ‘See you later,’ Nell said and skipped away.

  Throat tight, Clare watched her go. Keeping her head down and her hood up, she walked swiftly past the two men and slipped into an alley between the houses. It was dank and shadowy, more of a gutter than an alley—the ground was soggy with moss. Her mind raced as she hurried along. She knew exactly what she must do.

  She had money left over from market, Nicola would not begrudge her it. First she would find a scribe and get a note to Sir Arthur. He would see that Nicola and Nell were safe. Then she would buy bread and then she would leave.

  What she didn’t know was where she would go. It was January, nights were bone-achingly cold, but there was one blessing—she was wearing her cloak.

  * * *

  Arthur was crossing the yard in front of the garrison gatehouse when a sentry hailed him. ‘Captain Ferrer, there’s a message for you.’ The sentry went into the guardhouse and emerged with a scrap of vellum.

  ‘My thanks.’ Arthur frowned at the vellum. He’d told Clare to send word if she needed help, but not for one moment had he thought she would heed him. Yet he could think of no one else who would contact him in this way. ‘Who brought this, did you see them?’

  ‘Local scribe, sir. Pierre Chenay.’

  Arthur unrolled the scroll. It was the briefest of letters, a few lines, no more. Glancing at the bottom, he saw that it had indeed been sent by Clare. The letter began formally, it was obvious it had been penned by a scribe, though the language was stripped of the traditional flowery sentiments. She wouldn’t have had money for those...

  Most honoured knight,

  You were kind to Nell at the Twelfth Night Joust and I thank you for it. I hope to impose further upon your kindness. I am leaving Troyes. As you are aware, Nell’s mother is ailing. I think she will soon be leaving this world for a higher place. The Count and Countess d’Aveyron have most graciously helped Nicola and Nell in the past, and I am writing to ask that you will inform them that I can no longer care for them. Count Lucien and Countess Isobel will see to their needs, I know.

  My heartfelt thanks,

  With all good wishes,

  Your servant, Clare

  At the bottom, next to where the scribe had w
ritten her name, there was an awkwardly formed cross and a large ink blot. She wouldn’t be used to holding a quill.

  Stupid woman, what was she doing leaving town when Geoffrey’s family had such need of her? Had the outlaws approached her? Had she been bullied into leaving?

  Crushing the message into a ball, Arthur shoved it in his pouch. There was a cold lump in his belly.

  ‘When did this arrive?’

  ‘Not half an hour since, Captain.’

  Arthur forced himself to relax. Half an hour. She’d be on foot—she couldn’t have got far in half an hour and he’d be able to track her, whichever road she’d taken. He was on the point of retracing his steps to inform Count Henry of what had happened when it occurred to him she might not yet have left her lodgings.

  * * *

  Arthur raised his hand to knock at the door. Inside, a child was crying. Nell. Lord. He knocked hard and the crying cut off. A bolt squealed and the door opened. Nell’s face, puffy with tears, appeared in the crack.

  ‘Sir Arthur!’ Sniffling, Nell wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

  ‘Holà, Nell.’ The child’s woebegone face told him that Clare had already left, but he had to ask. ‘May I speak to Clare?’

  ‘She’s not here.’ Nell’s eyes filled. ‘Mama says she’s gone away. Mama says—’

  ‘Nell?’ a faint voice cut in. ‘Let Sir Arthur enter, if you please.’

  Arthur bowed his head under the lintel and stepped into the room. It had been a while since he’d set foot in lodgings as basic as this. Smoke from a fire at the back filled the low-ceilinged room with smoke. A kettle sat on the hearth and a small clay pot lay slightly askew among the embers, steaming gently. Clothes were drying on a crooked clothes-rack.

  Nell’s sick mother, Nicola, lay on a cot by the fire. And she did look sick. The light was poor, but not so poor that Arthur couldn’t see that her eyes had sunk deep into their sockets. The skin over her cheekbones was wafer-thin.