Unveiling Lady Clare

by Carol Townend

  Rolling on to her back, she stared up at the rafters. The way that girl outside the Black Boar had brightened when she had seen him! She might have been a whore, but her smile had been genuine, her greeting warm. Sir Arthur liked women and they liked him. Sir Arthur would never force a woman, of that she was sure. He would be gentle. Careful. Those strong hands would pull the ribbons from her hair, they would stroke the clothes from her body...

  She caught her breath, dismayed by the direction of her thoughts. What was she doing? Such imaginings were not for her.

  Closing her eyes, she pulled the blanket about her. Just before she drifted into dreams, she found herself wondering why such a personable knight should take his pleasure in the Black Boar.

  Surely someone like Sir Arthur might have any woman—any lady—he wanted?

  Chapter Five

  The difference was subtle, but Arthur noticed it when he shook her awake—she smiled openly at him.

  ‘Good morning, Sir Arthur.’

  Clare’s smile was shy and beguiling. It lit the loft. The bedraggled, haunted waif of yesterday seemed to have melted away and the woman who’d replaced her, although obviously still frail, looked stronger. More confident. Startled by the difference—Clare had no difficulty meeting his eyes—Arthur spent the morning observing her. He watched her as they took their places at a table downstairs and broke their fast. The smile stayed firmly in place.

  Was this the effect of her learning that her father might be Count Myrrdin de Fontaine? It must be. She looked as though a weight had lifted from her. Hopefully, the stain of her illegitimacy would seem as nothing—a count’s daughter would surely not have to worry about her future even if she was baseborn. Arthur liked the change, it suited her.

  Outside, the rain had stopped. On the horizon, a clutch of trees were silhouetted by the rising sun, and pale shafts of light shot through them. The branches cast long, spiky shadows. When Arthur went into the stable to saddle Steel, he was conscious of Clare exchanging greetings with the son of the cloth merchant who had taken her place in the barn overnight. The lad was all arms and legs, and when she spoke to him, his cheeks flushed poppy-red. After the conversation was ended, the boy’s eyes followed her, lingering on her hair, her figure.

  Arthur couldn’t fault him for that. Clare wasn’t tall, in truth, she barely reached his shoulder, but those delicate, elfin looks were very feminine. Even that homespun gown couldn’t conceal a pleasing figure. Wide shoulders set off small, high breasts; her body curved in pleasingly to a slim waist, and flared out again at her hips. Sweetly rounded hips. As she fastened her cloak ties, Arthur felt a tingle of interest, deep in his loins. Firmly, he repressed it. His duty was simply to escort her to Fontaine.

  He kept his dalliances with women light. Uncomplicated. Which was why he was in the habit of visiting the Black Boar. His transactions with Gabrielle were based on a simple exchange of silver—Gabrielle would never mistake their relationship for anything more lasting.

  In his position, Arthur couldn’t afford otherwise. Not only was he a landless knight who lived solely on the service he gave to his lord, his brother’s untimely death had taught him that he had nothing permanent to offer a woman. He might have climbed up through the ranks, but life was a lottery. It had been a harsh lesson and not one he was about to forget.

  He watched her as he loaded his belongings on to Steel and Ivo slung a saddle on the Castilian and led her into the yard.

  ‘Are you ready to try the pony, ma demoiselle?’ Ivo asked.

  Clare came smiling towards the black mare—her uncovered hair was a halo of flame in the morning sun. She had tied it back in a plait that hung well below her waist and several shining twists had sprung free. An image of Clare, with her body concealed by nothing but that swirling red hair, leaped into Arthur’s brain, temporarily paralysing his tongue.

  She was devastatingly pretty when she smiled, her whole face transformed. For the second time in the past hour, Arthur felt a stirring of desire. It occurred to him that the journey to Brittany might not be all penance, there were unlooked-for compensations. Not only was this smiling Clare pretty enough to make him want to forget his self-imposed rule about complicated entanglements with women, but he was so drawn to her that it was tempting to turn his back on his decision never to involve himself with a woman with noble blood in her veins.

  Lord, this journey was becoming far more of a challenge than he had anticipated.

  Leaving Steel in his stall, Arthur went into the yard. Clare was studying the black mare, eyes wary. He cleared his throat. ‘You said you don’t ride. Have you sat on a horse?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  A small hand came out, tentatively stroking the pony’s neck. The pony snickered and turned to look at her. Clare snatched her hand away.

  Catching her hand, Arthur enfolded it in his, he couldn’t resist. ‘She’s perfectly tame, she’s curious about you.’ Carefully, he carried their joined hands back to the pony’s neck. A rush of feeling raced from her hand to his, a sensation so rare he was tempted to prolong the contact.

  Startled, he released her and stepped hastily back. He couldn’t afford to become involved with her. This girl might have noble connections. Of course, being illegitimate, she would not be strictly noble. Nevertheless, he knew without asking that she would consider herself insulted if he were to offer her the kind of arrangement he had with Gabrielle. This girl was not to be bought.

  ‘Does she have a name, sir?’

  Arthur was staring at the hand gently stroking the pony. Her sleeve had fallen back to reveal a slender wrist, a slim arm. Did she have the strength to ride all day?

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘The pony—what is her name?’

  Arthur glanced helplessly at his squire. ‘Ivo?’

  ‘I am not sure she has a name, sir.’

  Clare’s smile dimmed. ‘She should have a name. I shall call her Swift.’

  ‘Swift?’ Arthur bit back a grin. The little mare was known for her placid nature. ‘I’ve yet to see her stretch to a trot.’

  Those unusual eyes met his, her lips curved. ‘Sir, I cannot tell you how glad I am to hear you say that. If I stay on her while she’s standing, that will be miracle enough.’

  Gently, Arthur manoeuvred her to the pony’s side. A delicate fragrance hung about her—flowery and elusive. Feminine. ‘We shall see. Come...take up the reins in your left hand. No, not so. So...’

  Their fingers met on the reins and again that tingle scorched up his arm. They were standing so close, he could feel the heat of her body. He could hear the slight flurry of her breath. As he adjusted her hand, a small pulse made itself felt in his groin. He gritted his teeth.

  No entanglements.

  The pony shifted. ‘Ivo, hold the pony’s head.’

  Arthur closed his hand on Clare’s. ‘That’s it. Hold the reins like that while you mount. Once you are seated, we shall readjust them.’

  Bending, Arthur linked his hands to make a step for her. After a moment, when nothing happened, he glanced up at her. She was looking down at him, biting her lip, all confidence gone.

  ‘Oh, no, sir. I...I’m sorry, I don’t think I...’

  Arthur straightened. ‘Yes, you can.’ With a smile, he took her by the waist, ignored her squeak of protest and lifted her into the saddle.

  * * *

  Progress was painfully slow. Slower by far than Clare had expected. Sir Arthur had kept her on a leading rein and, despite the pace, it had taken all her concentration to stay in the saddle. Mere moments after they had set out from the inn, Clare had realised that she would have to use all her resources simply to stay mounted. She had no leisure for thinking, and conversation was out of the question. At noon, Sir Arthur called a halt outside another hostelry. She was so exhausted, she c
ould have wept.

  Sir Arthur dismounted, slung his reins at Ivo and came towards her. ‘You did well,’ he said, reaching up to lift her down. Clare found herself wrestling with the temptation to rest her head against that broad, mail-clad chest. Stiffening her spine, for her legs were wobbly, she forced a smile. ‘Liar. A snail would proceed more quickly.’

  ‘You stayed on and you didn’t complain, that’s a promising start. You are all right?’ His hands were warm on her waist. When she nodded, he released her. ‘Any stiffness?’

  ‘A little.’ She grimaced. ‘And I suspect you’re about to tell me that it’s going to get worse.’

  ‘Very likely. Come, let’s see what this inn has to offer.’ Sir Arthur crooked his arm at her and they went inside.

  * * *

  And so a pattern began to emerge. They ate at the inn. Clare was lifted on to Swift again—the irony of her choosing that name was not lost on her—and they rode. They stopped at another inn. They found lodgings for the night and then it began all over.

  Sir Arthur lifted her—more stiff and aching than she would have believed possible—on to Swift. They rode. They stopped at an inn....

  By the end of the second day, the leading rein had vanished.

  By the third day, they tried a trot. It was hell, a silent hell, for they rode in silence. Clare was uncertain whether Sir Arthur was quiet because he resented having to escort her to Fontaine. On the other hand, he might be trying to help her. He wasn’t stupid—he knew she needed to concentrate. Neither thought was particularly uplifting.

  They were riding abreast along a road that was screened by trees at either hand. Brambles snaked in and out of the margins. Occasionally, Clare saw a flash of red as a squirrel whisked through the leaf mast.

  She decided to try breaking the silence. ‘I don’t think I’m a natural rider, Sir Arthur, and I’m sorry for it. It looks as though it will be some while before you are back in Troyes.’

  Brown eyes glanced across. ‘Arthur,’ he said. ‘Since we are to be companions for so long, you should call me Arthur.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You are becoming more at ease on horseback. We shall make a rider of you yet.’

  Sir Arthur—Arthur—thought she was at ease?

  ‘If you knew how stiff I feel, you wouldn’t say that,’ she murmured.

  However, she was quietly pleased with her progress. Only yesterday, conversation had been the last thing on her mind. Concerned that the Veronese might be following them, she had been obsessed with escaping as swiftly as possible.

  Today, simple conversation would be welcome. If she could earn Sir Arthur’s—Arthur’s—regard, she might win his friendship. And this man’s friendship would surely be worth having. Arthur was honourable and he took his responsibilities seriously—he would make a loyal friend. She would begin by asking him about Nicola and Nell. She felt badly about leaving them. It would be good to know they would manage without her.

  ‘Sir—Arthur—I wanted to ask you about Count Lucien. Is he steadfast?’

  A dark eyebrow lifted. ‘Steadfast?’

  This morning, Arthur had dispensed with his mail coat, Clare had seen Ivo stowing it in his pack. None the less, he was unmistakably a knight. Beneath his green cloak, he was wearing a simple grey tunic with a leather gambeson for protection. His helmet was looped round the pommel of his saddle, and his shield was slung on his left. Clare studied the unicorn while she waited for him to speak. Why had he chosen a unicorn as his device? It seemed odd that a straightforward, earthy man like Arthur would choose a mythical beast.

  ‘Count Lucien is one of the most steadfast men I know,’ he said. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I am hoping that he and Countess Isobel will continue to visit Nicola.’

  ‘They will, no question. I sent word to Ravenshold that Nicola was getting weaker. Countess Isobel is sure to visit. I also sent them a manservant from Troyes Castle.’

  ‘That was kind, thank you.’

  Harness jingled. ‘Countess Isobel may offer them lodgings at Ravenshold.’

  ‘I doubt Nicola will accept. She might be frail, but she’s fiercely independent. She’s lived all her life in Troyes and won’t want to move.’

  Arthur nodded. ‘My father was the same when he grew old.’

  ‘Your father lived in Troyes?’

  ‘Aye.’ Arthur stared at the road ahead of them.

  ‘Your father was a knight, like you?’

  Mouth tightening, he gave the tiniest of headshakes. ‘My father was an armourer.’

  Clare stared—that she had not expected. Not that she had thought about Arthur’s ancestry, of course, but if she had, she would have assumed his father had been a nobleman, at the least a knight as he was. ‘Ferrer,’ she murmured. ‘You came by your name because of your father.’

  He shot her a fierce look and she realised that he had not intended to discuss his background with her.

  ‘My father was more than a blacksmith, he was castle armourer until he became too old to lift a hammer.’ He stared ahead, eyes bleak. ‘It pleases some to mock me for it.’

  ‘Some people will make mock of anything.’

  ‘Father was renowned throughout Champagne for the quality of his work. Why, even the King...’ He scrubbed his hand over his face, and the fierce look faded. ‘Lord, I don’t know why I told you that. It’s not something I normally talk about.’

  She smiled. ‘Why not? You are proud of your father’s work.’

  ‘I am and justly so.’ He touched his sword hilt. ‘This is one of his, it’s the best sword in Troyes. Although to speak to some, you would think I have much to be ashamed of.’

  ‘You? Ashamed?’

  Mouth twisting, he turned the subject. ‘We were speaking of Nicola, I believe. Count Lucien knows she needs assistance. Should she wish to remain in Troyes, he will ensure she may do so safely.’

  ‘It was kind of you to send a manservant.’

  He shrugged. ‘Anyone would have done the same.’

  Clare wasn’t so sure. Arthur had been displeased with his orders to escort her to Fontaine, yet he’d paused to consider Nicola’s welfare. In her experience, men wasted little thought on the welfare of others, particularly men who had been commanded to a duty they found distasteful.

  ‘Clare—if I may call you that...?’

  ‘Please do. Ma demoiselle is far too formal.’

  ‘Clare, why did you leave in such haste? Did the thieves threaten you? You must know you can tell me without fear of reprisal, I am sworn to protect you. And when the man I think is your father acknowledges you—you will be beyond their reach for all time.’

  ‘If he acknowledges me,’ Clare said, lightly.

  ‘If you are his child, Count Myrrdin will acknowledge you.’

  Arthur leaned across to give her hand a reassuring squeeze, and an odd quiver ran up her arm. She felt it in her breasts, in her belly. Unsettled, she looked swiftly away.

  ‘When I return to Troyes,’ Arthur continued, removing his hand, ‘it is my hope to root out the thieves once and for all. It would help if you would tell me everything you know. You can start with the cave.’

  ‘Truly, sir—’

  ‘Arthur.’

  ‘Truly, Arthur, I know so little, I am not the right person to ask.’ And even if I had anything to tell you, I am not certain I would. She didn’t want him finding out about her life as a slave. She couldn’t imagine how he might react. Would he look at her with pity? Or would he take her part, and redouble his efforts to rid Troyes of thieves and slavers alike?

  The thought of him catching the Veronese had a chill run through her. Not for the sake of Lorenzo da Verona, never that. It chilled her because if Arthur found the slaver, he would soon discover that back in Apulia she had been
accused of attempted murder. That would surely wreck any friendship between them.

  Who would believe her word—that of an escaped slave—against her master’s son?

  Arthur’s dark eyes were far too watchful. It wasn’t surprising, he was trained to hunt down wrongdoers. Lifting her chin, Clare gazed at the trees ahead. Holy Virgin, what was she to do? He knew she was hiding something.

  ‘Clare, your loyalty to Geoffrey does you credit, but I know he was involved in the theft of a relic before Christmas.’ His voice was quiet. Implacable. ‘Think. If you confide what you know to me, you may prevent other thefts. Or worse. And if you do not...’ he paused significantly ‘...what am I to think, but that you yourself have been consorting with thieves?’

  ‘I have not been consorting with thieves!’

  His mouth lifted at the corner. ‘In that case, you will not mind telling me what you know.’

  And then Arthur couldn’t say exactly what happened, for he didn’t see Clare use her heels, but Swift jolted into a trot.

  Clare gave a little cry and clung to the saddle. Swift was only trotting, but it was a very smart trot. For a couple of seconds, Arthur found himself grinning at Clare’s appalling seat—she was bouncing up and down on the little mare like a sack of grain. Her hands seemed to be entangled in her cloak; several skeins of coppery hair went flying every which way. She was slipping slowly to the left.

  Lord, she was falling. Arthur’s smile faded. He gave Steel his head and was at the mare’s side as Clare slithered, all arms and legs and outraged gasps, from the saddle. She landed in an ungainly heap at the side of the road.

  Ivo gave a snort of laughter, quickly muffled as Swift trotted away.

  Arthur bit the inside of his mouth and dismounted. He couldn’t risk catching Ivo’s eye, for she did look amusing. He found himself contemplating a pair of attractive feminine legs with prettily shaped calves.

  She yanked her skirts down and rubbed her head. ‘I hit my head on a stone and it was your fault!’

  Arthur sobered. ‘You’re hurt? Let me see.’ He knelt at her side, peeled her hand aside and peered at her scalp. There were bits of dead bracken in her hair. Some blades of grass. Gently, he drew her plait from the back of her cloak.