Unveiling Lady Clare

by Carol Townend

  Age-spotted hands plucked at the blankets. ‘Sir Arthur Ferrer?’

  ‘At your service, ma dame. As you doubtless heard, I am looking for Clare.’

  Nicola’s lip trembled. ‘I am afraid you have missed her. She has...moved away.’

  Nell jumped into his line of vision, fists clenched. ‘No, she hasn’t! She’s gone for salt.’ A small hand batted his. ‘Sir Arthur, Clare told me she was going to buy salt.’

  Arthur looked at Nicola. He wasn’t used to dealing with children and, sweet though this one was, he was helpless in the face of her tears.

  ‘We have plenty of salt, sir,’ Nicola said, gesturing at a pot by the fire. ‘Clare’s not coming back.’

  Tiny fingers curled into his tunic. ‘She is! She is coming back! She forgot we had salt. She’ll be back soon, I know it.’

  ‘Nell,’ Nicola’s voice, though weak, held a warning. ‘Shouldn’t you be watching our soup?’

  The small fingers uncurled and, sniffing, the child went to the fire.

  ‘I knew this time would come, sir,’ Nicola said. ‘I hoped she would stay, but in my heart I knew she would leave us.’

  Nell had found a wooden spoon. Arthur watched her stirring. ‘Was Clare threatened, do you know?’ he asked quietly. Thanks to Geoffrey’s change of heart, a priceless relic had slipped out of the thieves’ hands. It was more than likely they bore a grudge. Had they demanded recompense? Were they taking their anger out on Clare?

  ‘Threatened? Why should anyone threaten Clare?’ Nicola gazed thoughtfully into the fire. ‘I suppose there could have been something. Clare kept her thoughts to herself much of the time. When Geoffrey brought her here, a scrawny waif whom he found on the road to Ravenshold, I had my doubts.’

  Arthur stared. ‘Sir Geoffrey found her on the road?’

  ‘Yes, sir. She had nowhere to go, so he brought her here. My Geoffrey offered her board and keep in return for looking after us.’ Nicola’s eyes were glassy with tears, her voice was a thread. ‘She was a tower of strength when Geoffrey died, but more than that, I have grown fond of her. She stayed longer than I dared hope.’

  ‘Do you know where she’s gone?’

  ‘No, sir. Will you...’ her expression brightened ‘...will you try to find her?’

  Arthur hesitated. ‘I shall try, but I am sworn to serve Count Henry.’ He moved to the door.

  ‘You are Captain of the Guardian Knights and must follow the Count’s orders?’

  ‘I must.’

  ‘Perhaps, sir, if you asked for Count Henry’s permission...?’

  Arthur reached for the door latch. Mon Dieu, the last thing he wanted to do was to leave Troyes, particularly to chase after a chance-met girl, even one who might be Count Myrrdin’s by-blow. It was an honour to be Captain of Count Henry’s Guardians—an honour that had been hard won. Being Captain of the Guardians was no sinecure. Several knights were jostling to take his place, young Raphael of Reims to name but one. If Arthur were to leave Troyes, even with the Count’s blessing, the post of Captain of the Guardians might be lost to him for ever.

  However, it wasn’t safe for a vulnerable young woman to be wandering the highways without protection. Never mind that it was midwinter, there were rogues everywhere, anything could happen. A fist formed in his stomach. She must be found.

  ‘That will depend on Count Henry, ma dame. Rest assured, I shall inform him of Clare’s disappearance. I shall also inform Lord d’Aveyron.’

  Nicola’s head came up in a way that reminded Arthur of her son. ‘Thank you, sir, but there’s no need to speak to Lord d’Aveyron.’

  Clare had mentioned that Nicola was unaware of the trouble Geoffrey had embroiled himself in before his death. Was it wise to leave her in ignorance? If, as he suspected, Clare had been bullied out of Troyes by a gang of outlaws—might they take their revenge out on Nicola and the child? He must speak with Count Henry again.

  In the meantime, he didn’t want to worry Nicola more than was necessary. He smiled. ‘Ma dame, in my judgement Count Lucien would wish to know that Clare has left Troyes. He was Geoffrey’s liege lord and he has your welfare at heart. I will also send a manservant from the castle to assist you. Good day.’

  Nicola looked at him before sinking back into her pillows—the exchange had exhausted her. ‘Thank you, Sir Arthur. Good day.’

  * * *

  Back at Troyes Castle, Count Henry admitted him at once. During Arthur’s absence, the parchments and scrolls seemed to have trebled in number.

  ‘Well?’ Count Henry demanded, setting his quill aside and flexing inky fingers. He looked past Arthur and scowled at the empty doorway. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Mon seigneur, I am afraid I missed her, she has left Troyes.’ Arthur delved in his pouch for the letter. ‘This was waiting for me at the gatehouse.’

  Count Henry skimmed the message before handing it back. ‘Pity. I wonder where she went. Any ideas?’

  ‘No, my lord. I have spoken to the woman she shares lodgings with, but she wasn’t able to help.’

  ‘I take it she—?’

  ‘Her name is Clare.’

  Count Henry’s gaze sharpened. ‘Clare. I assume Clare is ignorant of the identity of her possible sire?’

  ‘I believe she is, my lord.’

  Count Henry looked thoughtfully at the solar window, before waving Arthur to the stool. ‘Sit, man, for heaven’s sake. Do you really believe this woman could be Myrrdin’s daughter?’

  ‘My lord, I’d be uneasy swearing to it. All I can say is that only once have I seen eyes like that and they belonged to Count Myrrdin de Fontaine. I’d like your permission to find her and bring her back to Troyes. She cannot be safe wandering abroad.’

  Count Henry picked up a fresh quill and began toying with it. Already his thoughts were straying back to his account books. ‘Very well, you may find her, she can’t have got far.’

  Arthur rose. ‘Shall I bring her to meet you?’

  ‘Heavens, no, I’ve had second thoughts on that score. What would I do with the girl? When you find her, you can take her straight to Count Myrrdin in Brittany.’

  Take her straight to Count Myrrdin in Brittany?

  Arthur felt his jaw drop. ‘Take her to Fontaine? But, my lord—’

  ‘Myrrdin will know if she’s his daughter, he can decide what’s to be done with her.’ Count Henry picked up a knife and started trimming the quill.

  Arthur’s guts were cold. ‘My lord?’

  ‘There’s a problem, Captain?’

  ‘This...’ Arthur cleared his throat ‘...this commission may take some weeks to complete.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Are the Guardians to go uncaptained for all that time? Mon seigneur, I urge you to reconsider. Wouldn’t it be better to bring her here, when I find her? We might then send word to Fontaine.’

  Count Henry scowled at his quill, tossed it aside and selected another. ‘No, no, you are my best man—who better to escort Myrrdin’s daughter to Fontaine? Sir Raphael can stand in as Captain of the Guardians until your return. The boy shows promise, it will do him good to be given real responsibility.’

  Arthur ground his teeth together. Not Raphael, dear God, not Raphael. Sir Raphael de Reims was everything Arthur would never be—the younger son of an old and ancient line. Arthur Ferrer, as everyone in Troyes knew, had not a drop of noble blood flowing in his veins.

  Arthur had hoped that Count Henry valued a man for his deeds and not his ancestry. I am the son of an armourer. Illegitimate. Raphael is the son of a count. What chance do I have against the son of a count? Is this Count Henry’s way of telling me I have lost my captaincy?

  Count Henry scrawled on a piece of vellum and handed it to him. ‘Take this to the treasury. You will be given money to cover your expenses. God speed,
Captain.’ He glanced at the window. ‘It’ll be dusk before we know it. You had best hurry, if you intend to catch up with her tonight.’

  Chapter Four

  Light was fading by the time Arthur was ready to leave. He had explained the circumstances to his squire, none the less, the lad was startled by their haste of their departure.

  ‘We’re setting out at this hour?’ Ivo asked. ‘Before supper?’

  ‘We’ll find an inn later,’ Arthur said, yanking so hard on the girth of his saddle that Steel shifted and stamped in his stall.

  He was in a dark mood. Why the devil had Clare put him in the position of having to chase after her? It was plain that something must have happened to make her run off and naturally he was sorry for it, but it would have been so much easier if she had just come to him for help, as he had suggested. Worse, he was disappointed with Count Henry for finding a replacement Captain so easily. ‘Raphael, Raphael,’ he muttered. ‘Mon Dieu.’ The Count hadn’t even needed to think about it, he had immediately known who he would pick. It was almost as though he had been planning it.

  The old doubts rushed back. It is because I am low-born. Count Henry seems fair and just, but when it comes to promotion he is more likely to advance someone of his own class than an illegitimate knight from the lower orders.

  Ivo was leading one of Count Henry’s Castilian ponies, a black mare, into the yard. The Count was insistent they took her with them, so that Count Myrrdin’s daughter, if such she was, would have her own mount. In Arthur’s view the mare would have a wasted journey. It was unlikely that the girl would be able to ride.

  Mon Dieu, he couldn’t believe it—he was to ride to Brittany. In January. As the escort of a girl who in all likelihood hadn’t so much as sat on a horse, never mind ridden one...

  ‘Ivo?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You’ve said your farewells to your mother?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘She understands you may be away for some weeks? When we find this woman, we must take her to Fontaine.’

  Ivo’s eyes glowed. ‘Yes, sir.’

  To Ivo this commission was an adventure. Arthur wished he felt the same.

  They left Troyes by the Paris gate. Arthur had already discovered from one of the sentries on the city wall that someone answering Clare’s description had been taken up by a cloth merchant anxious to catch the tail end of the Lagny Fair. She had been seen sitting in the back of a cart on a bale of cloth. Wretched woman.

  Arthur urged Steel into a trot. ‘We should catch up with her by nightfall. I reckon they’re heading for the Stork.’ Reaching into his saddlebag, he found a chunk of bread. ‘Here, if you’re starving, you’d best have this.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  The miserable, grey evening did nothing to improve Arthur’s mood. A persistent drizzle set in, and they reached the Stork a little later than he had predicted. Arthur’s stomach was growling; and despite his fur-lined cloak, his clothes were sticking, cold and clammy, to his skin. Doubtless his squire felt equally miserable. Wretched woman. If it weren’t for her, he and Ivo would be happily ensconced by the fire in the great hall, eating their supper.

  Torches were sputtering in the yard of the Stork. The ground was muddy and rutted by cartwheels, and puddles were spotted with raindrops. Light flickered under the inn door, a small but welcome sign of life.

  ‘Sir...’ Ivo pointed ‘...is that the lady?’

  In a shed next to the stable, a large wagon was covered in sailcloth and Clare was sitting on a heap of straw next to it. She made a forlorn figure. If she had set out with a veil, she had lost it en route. Her auburn hair clung like dark weed to her skull and she was combing through it with her fingers. Her nose was pink. A threadbare cloak hung limply on a nearby hook—both Clare and the cloak looked as damp as he. Despite his ill temper, Arthur’s heart went out to her.

  ‘That’s the lady. Find a stall for the horses, would you? Get the grooms to assist, and then order supper for three.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Dismounting, Arthur left Ivo to deal with the horses. As he approached, those mismatched eyes widened.

  She jumped to her feet. ‘Sir Arthur!’

  ‘Good evening, ma demoiselle.’

  Pushing her hair over her shoulder, she gave him a troubled look. ‘Why are you here?’

  Arthur folded his arms. ‘I am come to find you.’

  She shifted back a pace. ‘Why?’

  ‘Orders from Count Henry.’ He gave her a brief bow and looked deep into those mismatched eyes. ‘I am to escort you to the man we believe to be your father.’

  She went white. ‘M-my father?’

  Arthur waited. He was interested to hear what she said if he did not prompt her.

  ‘My father?’ Mouth working, she took that step back towards him. ‘Sir, since I’ve already told you that I don’t know where I was born and that I suspect I am baseborn, you must be making fun of me. I do not know my father. And he does not know me.’

  ‘I believe I have worked out who he might be—’

  ‘Sir?’

  She seemed to stop breathing. Had this girl been Geoffrey’s lover? Arthur longed to know. Those unusual eyes were very expressive and the hunger with which she was watching him was curiously moving. She looked wary, almost hopeful. It came to him that she was afraid. She wasn’t used to feeling hopeful and it frightened her.

  ‘It’s my belief your father is a powerful and wealthy Breton nobleman. His name is Count Myrrdin de Fontaine.’

  Clare looked blankly at him, as though she had never heard of Count Myrrdin de Fontaine which, given that Count Myrrdin had been one of the leading noblemen in Brittany, was passing strange.

  ‘You’ve not heard of Count Myrrdin?’

  Slowly, she shook her head. ‘No, sir.’ She glanced away. ‘As I mentioned before, I have spent many years abroad. Where is Fontaine again?’

  ‘It’s many miles to the west of here, in the Duchy of Brittany. Count Myrrdin has largely retired from the world, but in his day he was known as a man of great honour.’ He gentled his tone. ‘I do not think he would reject you.’

  ‘Sir Arthur, most men would find an illegitimate daughter a great embarrassment, they would be ashamed. What makes you so certain Count Myrrdin will accept me?’

  ‘He has been a widower for some years. He has a strong sense of right and wrong, and if you are his child, he would want to know of it. Count Henry agrees with me, which is why he has given me this commission. Incidentally, you might like to know that Count Myrrdin has another daughter.’

  ‘I assume she is legitimate.’

  ‘Yes, and thanks to her marriage to the Comte des Iles, she is already a countess—the Countess Francesca des Iles.’

  ‘You are certain Count Myrrdin is my father?’

  Reaching out, Arthur took her by the shoulders. Even though his touch was light, she strained away from him. He frowned and gently turned her to face the hissing torches. ‘It’s your eyes,’ he murmured, looking into them. Truly they were fascinating—the green one had grey and silver flecks in it, and the grey one had black speckles near the pupil. ‘You have one green and one grey, exactly like Count Myrrdin. It’s so unusual. You’re his daughter, I know it.’

  Long eyelashes lowered, she shifted and Arthur released her. The instant he did, she edged away. It was like a dance. She came near, she edged back, she came near...

  She fears men.

  Arthur jerked his head towards the inn. ‘What’s the food like in there?’

  ‘I couldn’t say.’

  ‘You haven’t eaten?’

  Her eyes wouldn’t meet his. ‘Not yet, sir.’

  Arthur found himself scowling at the cloak on the hook behind her. ‘You were planning to eat tonight?’


  ‘I...I, yes, of course. I shall eat later.’

  She was lying. Glad that he’d asked Ivo to order food for three, Arthur’s gaze shifted to the cart and the pile of straw. ‘You were going to sleep out here. Lord, woman, that’s begging for trouble. Come along, I am buying your supper.’

  ‘Oh, no, sir, I couldn’t.’

  He reached past her, ignored the way she shied away from him, and lifted her cloak from the peg. It was pathetically light. It would be useless at keeping out rain and cold. ‘Of course you can.’ With a grin he added, ‘Particularly since Count Henry will be paying for it.’

  She hung back. ‘Sir Arthur, I can’t. You don’t understand, I’ve promised to rest here. I’m guarding the cart tonight.’

  ‘You? Guarding the cart?’

  ‘The merchant wanted to charge me when I asked for a ride.’ She shrugged. ‘I haven’t much money, and when I explained, he said he’d take me if I watched over his merchandise.’

  ‘All night?’

  ‘Yes. He refused to take me otherwise.’

  Arthur swore. ‘We’ll see about that.’ Gripping her firmly by the elbow, he steered her across the wheel-rutted yard and into the inn.

  Inside, Sir Arthur turned to Clare. ‘Where is this merchant? What is his name?’

  The inn was ill lit, smoky and crowded, but the merchant’s son was a lanky youth with a red crest of hair, which made him and his father easy to see. She pointed. ‘He’s at the table by the serving hatch—the one in the russet tunic. He’s called Gilbert de Paris.’

  Arthur strode straight over. ‘Gilbert? Gilbert de Paris?’

  The merchant looked Arthur up and down, his gaze lingering for a moment on his sword. ‘Sir?’

  ‘If you want someone to guard your cart overnight, you’d best make new arrangements. This lady is no longer in a position to help you. And even if she were, it’s shameful to take advantage of a woman forced to travel alone.’

  The merchant looked dourly at Clare, grunted and elbowed his son. ‘Renan?’

  The boy grimaced. ‘Father?’

  ‘Take your supper outside, you’re watchman tonight.’