Unveiling Lady Clare

by Carol Townend

  He was going to sleep. And as soon as they reached Fontaine, he would find a likely inn and buy himself some love.

  Chapter Seven

  Arthur must have dozed, for when he came to himself again, the lamp had burned out. He had dreamed he was walking in a field of lavender. Below, all was quiet. A warm weight lay on his shoulder. Clare’s head was tucked against him and her arm was about his waist, the scent of lavender was coming from her hair. Arthur laid his palm gently on her head and his gut twisted.

  Want? Thwarted desire? It was irritating that he couldn’t pin it down.

  Arthur wasn’t in the habit of waking alongside a woman, that must be the trouble. He paid for the act of love and he paid well, but he had never paid to spend the entire night with a girl. It had seemed extravagant in the extreme to pay for hours of a woman’s company when most of the time you would be asleep. This was the first time he had woken with a woman in his arms.

  Carefully, so as not to disturb her, he rested his cheek against her head. Lavender. This waking with a woman was really quite pleasurable. When he felt a pulsing ache, deep in his loins, he grimaced. Although clearly, there were drawbacks...

  * * *

  After breaking their fasts, Arthur took Clare out to see what the village had to offer in the way of clothing. Ivo came with them. Their breath fogged out before them and frost crunched underfoot.

  Clare cast Arthur a sidelong glance and touched her mouth. She was meant to be choosing new clothes and all she could think about was that kiss. She could feel its echo—it was as though those warm, firm lips were still exploring hers. She’d enjoyed being cradled in his arms and she’d loved the way her body had melted into his. Was this a glimpse of what it might feel like to give oneself to a man one trusted? The feeling of being able to abandon oneself to another was oddly empowering. She’d felt defenceless and she’d felt invincible all at once. How was that possible?

  And why had Arthur pulled away? Had she done something wrong? Something that repelled him? Doubt sat cold inside her. She’d love to think he’d enjoyed it as much as she had, but...

  His dark eyes were focused on a handful of cottages clustered round the village well. Some had lowered their shutters and transformed themselves into stalls. Loaves of bread were for sale at one house. Another was displaying rounds of cheese. There was a potter and a blacksmith. A goat was tethered to a stake by the well head, its pitiful bleating sliced through the air. A brace of bedraggled hens crouched, fluffed up with cold, in their coop.

  And that kiss lingered. It was probably just as well he’d ended it. Had it gone on much longer, she would have been certain to have embarrassed both of them.

  ‘Look—’ Ivo pointed ‘—there’s cloth over there.’

  They crossed the square and Clare forced herself to concentrate. Clothing, they were looking for clothing.

  ‘This isn’t bad,’ Arthur said, fingering a blue worsted. ‘It should keep out the worst of the chill.’

  Clare’s eyes fastened on a bright green cloth. ‘I like this one, but...’ she gestured at the mend in her gown ‘...we will be travelling and I can’t be sewing on the journey. I need a finished gown.’

  ‘A finished gown, ma dame?’ The shopkeeper’s face lit up, and he gestured at the house behind him.

  Through the open shutter Clare saw the flash of a needle. A woman was sewing inside.

  ‘Ma demoiselle needs three warm gowns,’ Arthur said. ‘She needs a lined cloak, some gloves and the usual assortment of undergowns. But she needs them this morning.’

  The shopkeeper’s eyes bulged. ‘This morning? Three gowns? My wife will see what she has.’ He measured Clare with his gaze, and gestured her towards the door. ‘Alix! Alix! A lady has come to see you. She needs finished gowns.’

  Clare looked wide-eyed at Arthur. ‘Three? It seems an extravagance to buy one made gown, but three? Are you sure?’

  Arthur nodded. ‘If she has them.’ He dug a handful of coins from the purse at his belt and dropped it into her hand. ‘Buy whatever you need. Count Henry would have my head on a platter if I were to present you to Count Myrrdin looking like a beggar.’

  Feeling as dazed as she had when he’d kissed her, Clare nodded. ‘There’s no need to wait, I shall see you back at the inn.’

  * * *

  The horses were saddled and ready to go when Clare came back from the seamstress. She was wearing a light blue veil and a cloak the colour of cornflowers. Her gown was a couple of shades darker.

  A fist seemed to clench in Arthur’s stomach as he looked at her. The veil suited her, even though it hid most of that glorious hair. A few rebellious curls still framed her face, but he preferred her without the veil. He liked looking at her hair and the veil seemed to have distanced her from him. ‘You look very well,’ he said. In truth, Clare looked every inch the noblewoman, but the words stuck in his throat. ‘Your father will be proud to acknowledge you.’

  ‘I pray you are in the right,’ she said, holding out a bundle. ‘Here are the other things I bought. I also found a comb.’

  ‘Ivo, put Clare’s things in that pack.’ While Ivo was busy with the saddlebags, Arthur took her arm. ‘Are you sure you have enough?’

  ‘Yes, indeed! Fortune was with me, for the seamstress and I are almost of a size—there was plenty of choice. She even had a gown in that leaf-green on the stall.’

  Her eyes were bright with pleasure, Arthur wished he had thought to do this sooner. ‘The cloak is lined?’

  ‘Yes, with English wool.’ She opened it and stroked the lining, a pleased smile about her mouth. ‘I can take it back if you think I’ve been too extravagant.’

  ‘I wouldn’t hear of it. You must be warm.’

  ‘Thank you.’ With a glance at Ivo, Clare stepped nearer and lowered her voice. ‘And before you ask, yes, I have an undergown and look...’

  Reaching beneath her cloak, she tugged a pair of gloves from her girdle.

  Arthur took them from her and lifted a brow. ‘Calfskin.’

  ‘They belonged to Alix’s neighbour. She was delighted to sell them.’

  ‘Good, they will protect your hands from blisters as well as the chill.’

  She touched his hand. ‘I thank you, Arthur, most heartily. I have never had such fine things before.’

  ‘Don’t thank me, thank Count Henry,’ Arthur said, turning back to the horses. He found himself wishing that it had been he who had bought them for her. Delight enhanced her looks. Her unusual eyes shone and the curve of her lips was pure temptation. He hoped that Count Myrrdin would be pleased with his pretty daughter and more inclined to accept her. What will he think of her? Will he shower her with gifts?

  She seemed doubtful that her father would want to acknowledge her, but she didn’t know Count Myrrdin. The Count was getting on in years, he no longer attended the tourneys and he’d retired from his position as adviser to the young Duchess of Brittany. A pretty young daughter would surely gladden his heart and lighten his declining years.

  Arthur watched critically as Clare took up the reins and mounted—she had learned to do so without his help. By the end of their journey she’d be a fine rider.

  Count Myrrdin might, of course, deny that she was his. He sighed. The Count would have to be mad to reject a girl whose eyes were the match of his, but if he did...

  Perhaps I might offer her my protection. Would she marry me? The question made Arthur freeze even as he was placing his foot in his stirrup. Lord, where had that come from?

  Marriage was not for him. A landless, illegitimate knight had nothing to offer—neither a home, nor security. He swung into the saddle and adjusted the stirrups.

  But if Count Myrrdin finds her an embarrassment...

  Arthur had never taken part in the games of love that were acted out at Count Henry’s court.
The black memory stirred. After what had happened to Miles, he had watched them as from afar. His brother, Miles, had believed that his skill at arms would be enough to overcome the stigma of his humble birth. Miles had thought that if he proved himself honourable, his background and illegitimacy would be ignored—he had paid a high price for his beliefs.

  Who am I to think I can succeed where Miles failed?

  Arthur had to admit that even though everyone knew that his father had been Count Henry’s armourer, several ladies had made it clear that they would be happy to wear his favour. The women at Count Henry’s court didn’t see his background as an impediment when it came to a flirtation. A few had gone so far as to suggest an illicit affair. However, if one flirted with an unmarried woman, one risked being misunderstood. And if one flirted with a married one—Arthur grimaced—he had never liked the idea of flirting with married women.

  No, because of Miles’s death, Arthur avoided entanglements of any sort with noblewomen, whether unmarried or married.

  It had made little odds, in any case. There were plenty of Gabrielles in the world.

  Gabrielle understood him. She met his needs in ways a lady of the court could never do. Noblewomen were not for him. Arthur knew that if he were involved with a high-born lady and a misunderstanding arose, if his honour was questioned, the entire court would close ranks against him. That was as certain as day followed night. If his honour were put to the test, if his word was weighed in the balance against the word of a better-born man, Arthur knew who would be believed. And it wouldn’t be the illegitimate son of the castle armourer.

  Urging Steel forwards, Arthur led his little cavalcade on to the road.

  Behind him, Clare was chattering to Ivo, waving a hand to show off her gloves. Ivo coughed, nodding and smiling back at her through the coughs. It was plain the lad liked her. As Ivo coughed again, Arthur frowned. Had his squire caught a chill?

  ‘Don’t dawdle, you two, we must cover more ground today.’

  Clare urged Swift towards him, irrepressible curls of hair winding out from beneath her veil like dark flames. Could he marry someone like Clare? Someone who was, like him, illegitimate?

  Clare would never look down her nose at me. We are equals.

  It was something of a shock to realise that for the first time in his life, he was considering marriage as a distinct possibility. Ivo was not the only person to like Clare, Arthur liked her, too—even more so since she had shed some of her reserve. He certainly wanted her. What had happened between them last night was proof of that. He suspected she had kissed him as a means of turning the conversation—and it had not lessened his desire for her.

  Surely someone like Clare—Count Myrrdin’s love child—would be pleased if a knight offered for her? She had never enlarged upon the nature of her relationship with Geoffrey, but they must have been lovers. And, the rumour mill being what it was, it would not be long before her father’s retainers coupled her name with that of Sir Geoffrey of Troyes.

  Everyone at Fontaine would assume that Geoffrey had taken Clare as his belle-amie. When that happened, Clare would not simply be a fallen woman, she would be a fallen love child. Her future would be shadowed by her past.

  And then? If she was lucky, her father would bribe one of his household knights with a small manor and the knight would agree to marry his daughter, his tarnished, love child of a daughter. The thought of Clare being married off to one of Count Myrrdin’s household knights brought a bitter taste to his mouth. Clare deserved better than marriage to a man who had to be bribed to take her. It had been surprisingly delightful waking up with her in his arms—discounting the inevitable frustration, of course. But if he were to offer her marriage, there need be no frustration. And no need for Count Myrrdin to go to the trouble of bribing a household knight.

  Clare was laughing at something Ivo had said and Arthur saw the moment she caught him watching her. Her smile deepened. Arthur smiled back, even as he found himself wondering if the smile might be her way of keeping him sweet, of distracting him from discussing matters she would rather avoid?

  One thing was certain, Clare knew he desired her. With difficulty, he pulled his gaze from her and looked between Steel’s ears at the road. He must take care, this woman was muddling his mind. Most likely deliberately. Arthur hadn’t reached his position as Captain without learning the value of caution. He ought not to rush to a decision on marriage or anything else. Not until he had learned more about her.

  If, at the end of their time together, she seemed suitable and if he was still attracted to her, then he might consider offering for her.

  * * *

  One bitter, wintry day succeeded another. As Swift picked her way along mile after mile of glistening white road, the cold bit deep into Clare’s bones. The roadside was bordered by frosted bracken. Puddles were coated with a skim of ice and ruts were hard as iron. When the sun appeared it was pale—it had no strength against a cold that gnawed like a starving wolf at every finger and toe. Clare’s calfskin gloves might have been made of gossamer for all the good they did her. The cold pinched her nose and nibbled her ears. Without the lined cloak, she would be one solid lump of ice.

  Ivo sneezed repeatedly.

  The land was alien. More days passed. Chartres lay somewhere behind them. Places called Alençon and Vitré lay ahead. The names meant nothing to Clare, but according to Arthur they had reached the halfway mark of their journey. She was past caring. She had stopped trying to talk because every time she opened her mouth, her teeth hurt. Her lungs ached with every breath. She was so numb she had left all thought of tired, aching muscles behind her. There was only cold.

  And riding. They rode up hills and they rode down them, the horses’ hoofbeats ringing loud on the frozen earth. They nodded to passing riders. The skies turned grey. Clare’s fingers could barely move. She would swear that ice had formed inside her gloves. It was in her boots, too, she had lost feeling in her feet hours—days—ago...

  Midwinter. Trees and shrubs were coated in hoar frost. It was fairy-tale pretty, but it made grim riding. Ice in frozen puddles snapped like breaking glass when the horses stepped in them. The only birds braving the chill were the rooks, ragged flecks swirling in a pewter-coloured sky. All the other birds must be huddled in the bushes, too frozen to fly.

  No wonder that Arthur had been disappointed when he had been ordered to escort her to Fontaine. Travelling at any time of the year was not easy, but in midwinter it was purgatory. Count Henry must have been eager to wash his hands of her. They were chastening and sobering thoughts.

  With the horses’ breath wreathing about them like smoke, Clare adjusted the hood of her cloak and hunched into it. Thank God for this lined cloak. Without it, she would catch her death.

  In the event, it was not Clare who succumbed to sickness. Towards the end of one day when, oddly, there was less bite to the wind, it became clear that Ivo was far from well. He had sat slumped and silent on his horse for hours and barely responded when Arthur took charge of the pack-horse.

  ‘St Peter’s Abbey is a mile or so ahead,’ Arthur said. ‘We had best stop there.’

  Ivo’s nose was blue and his breathing laboured. Just over a week since, Clare could barely sit on a horse; but by this time she had improved so much she had no difficulty leaning towards Arthur to touch his sleeve.

  ‘I agree, we have ridden enough for now,’ she said. ‘Ivo needs warmth and rest.’

  Ivo roused himself. His cheeks had the hectic flush of the slightly fevered. ‘Oh, no.’ He smothered a cough. ‘I am very well, sir. I don’t want to cause delay.’

  Arthur’s dark eyes turned thoughtfully towards the east where a mass of clouds was gathering above the treeline. ‘It will harm none of us to rest for a while,’ he said easily.

  ‘But, sir...’ Ivo gave a racking cough ‘...I know how eager you are to return to Tro
yes.’

  ‘Not at the cost of your health. I am far more eager that my squire should be hale. A squire with lung fever is worse than useless.’

  * * *

  A white-robed monk ushered them into the abbey guest house. In the lodge hall, they were met with the sight of flames leaping in a large hearth. The lodge was empty and their footfall echoed round the whitewashed walls.

  ‘You have no other guests, Brother?’ Arthur asked.

  ‘No, sir. The weather...’ The monk shrugged.

  Clare was staring at the chimney flue, which was stone and set against the wall. ‘I’ve never seen a fireplace like that, but it’s just what Ivo needs.’

  Arthur watched as Clare led his squire to the fire and fussed over him—pulling a bench closer, pushing him on to it, chafing his hands.

  ‘Supper will be served in the refectory,’ the monk said. ‘You and your squire, sir, are welcome to join us. I shall arrange for a tray to be brought to the lodge for the lady.’

  Arthur hesitated. Ivo didn’t look as though he would make it to bed unaided, never mind to the refectory. And much as he understood that Clare might not feel comfortable being the only woman in a roomful of monks, he didn’t like to think of her eating alone. ‘If convenient, I would prefer my party to eat together here in the lodge.’ Unbuckling his sword, Arthur hung it on a hook on the wall.

  The monk nodded. ‘As you wish, sir. A novice will bring a tray over shortly.’

  ‘My thanks, Brother.’

  Clare was good with Ivo. Before supper arrived, she had him ensconced in a pallet by the fire. She heaped it high with blankets and stalked off, muttering about finding the infirmarian. When she returned, she had the ingredients for a herbal brew, which she proceeded to make over the fire. The wonder was that Ivo drank it. Likely he hadn’t the strength to resist her. When food and drink arrived—a lentil broth, warm bread and ale—Clare saw to Ivo before she saw to herself.

  Concerned that she would forget to eat, Arthur waited until Ivo’s eyelids began to droop and drew her to the side table. ‘Ivo’s caught a chill, he’s not on his deathbed. Your soup’s going cold and, if you don’t eat it soon, I might be tempted to eat it for you.’