It was killing him, though. Not being able to reach out and take her hand; not being able to smile at her. But worst of all was not knowing whether she would refuse him again. The uncertainty was unbearable.
Why won’t she have me? Why?
* * *
The road lifted and Clare shivered as the Brocéliande closed in on them. Gnarled and twisted oaks stood over the sleeping forest like sentinels. Moss clung to the fissured bark. Dead creeper hung like netting from leafless branches. In spring, when the wood burst into a froth of green, the scratchy, spiky lines of tree and branch would be softened. In winter the Brocéliande had beauty, but it was spare and stark.
As they rode, the land dropped away on one side, and Clare found herself with a bird’s-eye view over mile after mile of woodland. There were beech trees and birch trees and coppiced hazels. Holly bushes. The earth was carpeted in fallen leaves—russet, ochre, gold...
Streams rushed in and out, appearing and disappearing without warning. The bubbling water sounded like music. Here, a fountain frothed into a stone basin in a torrent of white water. There, a woodland grove looked as though it had been deserted since time began. Other than the streams, the forest was wrapped in silence. Leaf mast deadened the horses’ hoofbeats, and the birds were silent. If someone had told her that the forest of the Brocéliande lay under an enchantment, she would be tempted to believe it.
Fontaine came upon them as suddenly as the streams.
Clare was peering down the hillside, through a black tangle of interwoven branches, when she glimpsed a crenellated wall. Solid. Impregnable. Like the forest, it looked as though it had been there since the dawn of time.
She reined in. ‘Fontaine Castle?’
Arthur pulled up beside her and murmured assent. He didn’t look at her.
A grey tower pushed up through the trees. When Clare twisted in the saddle, she glimpsed another. And another. Three towers in all and a clutch of other buildings she couldn’t quite make out.
A cold sweat broke out on her brow. Fontaine.
‘Arthur?’ Please look at me. ‘Arthur?’
Finally, those dark eyes met hers.
‘Count Myrrdin might be away,’ she said, fumbling nervously with the reins.
Arthur had told her that as Fontaine was but one of Count Myrrdin’s holdings, he might not be in residence. Arthur had explained that the young Duchess of Brittany needed good counsel—the Count might be attending Duchess Constance...
‘The Lord of Fontaine will be here, never fear. I believe I mentioned that he has become reclusive of late.’
I believe I mentioned... Arthur’s tone was chillingly formal. It crossed her mind that he might almost be chastising her for not remembering what he had said.
Clare clenched her teeth, checked that her veil was in place—it wouldn’t do to disgrace Count Myrrdin by appearing at his gate dressed like a pedlar—and kicked Swift into a trot. She didn’t look Arthur’s way again. She didn’t need anyone’s help, she never had.
Sweat prickled at the back of her neck—she was about to greet the man Arthur swore was her father. She had no high expectations of this meeting. Arthur could be wrong. And even if he were not, the men in her life had either been tyrants like Sandro and his father, or misguided like Geoffrey. Even Arthur, who had said that she might count herself as his friend, was proving to be a disappointment.
Arthur had professed friendship to encourage her to bed him. There was no other explanation. She didn’t and wouldn’t regret bedding him, it was the loss of his friendship that she regretted—that, and the fact that he had thought to manipulate her by offering it.
The trees fell back as they approached the castle walls and a gatehouse loomed over them. Clare pushed her misgivings to the side and clattered over the drawbridge with her nose in the air.
As Clare rode into the bailey, her blue veil flew out behind her like a knight’s pennon.
Arthur knew she was nervous and wished he could help her, but it wasn’t his place. It would be best for both Clare and Count Myrrdin if he simply introduced them and stood back. They needed a chance to get to know each other. When that was done, whatever the outcome, Arthur would offer for her.
He was ruefully aware that trust between Clare and the Lord of Fontaine wasn’t likely to develop overnight. Which meant that he might not be returning to Troyes for a week or so. It was strange to realise that when he had agreed to be Clare’s escort all he had been thinking about was how soon he might return. Much of that urgency had gone. There was nothing to be gained by him speaking up too soon. Count Myrrdin might take against him. He might suspect that Clare and he had between them hatched up some kind of conspiracy to worm their way into his favour.
No, harsh though it seemed—Arthur hadn’t missed the dark looks flung his way since they had left St Peter’s—Clare must establish a bond with Count Myrrdin before he asked for her hand.
After that, however...
Arthur frowned at the set of Clare’s shoulders as she drew rein in the courtyard. She wasn’t an easy woman and he wasn’t certain she would accept him even if he had Count Myrrdin’s blessing. In truth, her rejection at the monastery, particularly after they had given each other such pleasure, had been galling. She baffled him. Surely marriage to him was preferable to marriage with a complete stranger? We are equals and there is affection between us.
He would give her time. Time to become more receptive to his offer. With luck she would be pleased to return to Troyes as his wife—she did have friends there.
Arthur thought of Raphael of Reims, standing in for him as Count Henry’s Captain. He grimaced. He might not be in a tearing hurry to get back, none the less, he would rather get back sooner than later. It wouldn’t do to allow Raphael to get too settled.
Clare was acting as though he had disappointed her. Surely that was promising? If she was disappointed by his seeming neglect, that must mean she had feelings for him. He certainly had feelings for her. He would never forget those nights in St Peter’s. Arthur smiled as he watched her dismount and hand her reins to an ageing groom. She looked very much the lady. She was a fast learner. In everything.
Whatever happened here, that would stand her in good stead.
The groom’s cheeks were as deeply fissured as the bark of the oaks they had passed on their way. Clare watched his jaw drop when he noticed her eyes. As she turned to make her way up some steps to a studded oak door, the groom led Swift away. Behind her, she heard voices.
‘André, you won’t believe what I’ve just seen. A woman’s arrived, she has Count Myrrdin’s eyes! And her hair—her hair...’
Clare didn’t catch the rest. Heart in her mouth, she allowed herself to be shown into the hall. Dimly she heard Arthur enquire after Count Myrrdin. Her cloak was removed and she was ushered into a side chamber where water was poured into a basin.
‘To refresh yourself, ma dame,’ the girl said, darting little glances at her eyes. ‘Before you speak with Count Myrrdin.’
‘My thanks.’
* * *
When Clare returned to the hall, several women—their simple dress proclaimed them to be servants—had appeared as if from nowhere. They all seemed to find reason to walk close by and they all happened to glance at her eyes. Her hair.
What was wrong with her hair? She resisted the urge to straighten her veil and was shown to a seat by the top table. With her nails digging into her palms, she lowered her gaze and focused on the rushes. She was vaguely aware of Arthur speaking to a man who looked to be one of her father’s household knights.
Arthur and the knight left the hall. A door slammed.
Several breaths went by. She peeped up. A couple of men-at-arms had joined the maidservants. Everyone was looking at her. She stiffened her shoulders. It is not my fault if I am baseborn. It was not my sin.
The door Arthur had vanished through opened. A young woman emerged and came slowly towards her. She must be of some importance, for she was richly dressed in a crimson gown and her veil was secured by a silver circlet that had been fashioned to look like rope. The maidservants dropped into quick curtsies as she passed.
Arthur’s voice floated through the open doorway, deep and familiar. ‘My lord, this is a delicate business and I feel a private conference would be best. My lord—’
‘Enough! The wench cannot be mine.’
Clare’s stomach lurched. That must be the Lord of Fontaine.
‘Count Myrrdin...’ Arthur again ‘...if you would but see her—’
‘Sir, you insult me. I have no illegitimate children.’
Clare strained to hear more, but the lady in the crimson gown and silver circlet had stopped directly in front of her, frowning. She had grey eyes and hair that was as black as night. ‘What is your name?’ she asked.
Clare stood up, stomach churning. ‘Clare.’
‘Clare.’ The girl’s voice was as soft and clear as a bell. ‘I am Countess Francesca.’
‘My lady, it is a pleasure to meet you,’ Clare said, curtsying. Her mind raced. This was her half-sister, the Comtesse des Iles, and the frown didn’t bode well. Was she going to take against her? Did she resent the appearance of an illegitimate half-sister? Clare’s misgivings grew as the Countess studied her, lips thinning. ‘My lady?’
‘Your hair is red,’ the Countess said.
What was it about her hair? Clare had become used to the way everyone invariably remarked on her eyes. But her hair? She shrugged and looked over her shoulder at the doorway. To be sure, it would not be pleasant if Countess Francesca took against her, but far more to the point was how Count Myrrdin was reacting.
I will not stay where I am not welcome. What’s happening out there?
It was beginning to look as though Arthur might have made an error about her parentage. It certainly sounded as though the Lord of Fontaine had taken great offence. It was natural, she supposed, that the Count should be angry. If she was not his child, he would be offended, and if she was—well, few men liked their sins being paraded before them.
The door flew open and hit the wall with a crack. A man surged through it. Count Myrrdin. He was tall and gaunt and was wearing a long cream tunic, tightly belted at the waist. A band of green swirls ran along the hem. The way the tunic hung off the Count’s frame suggested that he had once been a heavier man. He had wiry white hair and a beard that reached halfway down his chest.
Throat dry, Clare dropped into a deep curtsy. She rose to find herself blinking up at mismatched eyes that were exactly like hers.
‘One grey, one green,’ she murmured.
Oddly, Count Myrrdin wasn’t looking at her eyes. Like his daughter, Countess Francesca, he had fixed on her hair. A gnarled hand reached out—it was shaking—and pushed her veil aside. Catching a coppery strand on his finger, he hooked it out and rubbed it between his fingers. He lifted the strand to his nose, and Clare’s stomach cramped.
The Count went as white as his hair. ‘Mon Dieu,’ he muttered, swallowing hard. ‘Mon Dieu.’
Hand on his heart, Count Myrrdin flopped on to a bench.
Tears welled in the Countess’s eyes. Stumbling back, she picked up her skirts and ran from the hall.
‘My lord?’ Arthur stepped forwards. ‘You are well? Do you need assistance?’
Count Myrrdin’s eyes bored into Clare. ‘Your name, girl?’
‘My lord...’ biting her lip, Clare gestured after the Comtesse des Iles ‘...your daughter is distressed.’
‘I’ll deal with Francesca later. I take it you have a name?’
‘I am called Clare, my lord.’
The mismatched eyes sharpened. ‘You were christened Clare?’
‘I...I do not know if I was christened, sir. Clare is the name I chose.’
A white eyebrow lifted. ‘You chose your own name?’
‘Yes, my lord. I...I liked it,’ Clare stammered to a halt. She could say no more without revealing that she had chosen the name herself when she had fled Apulia.
‘You chose it because you liked it.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
The colour came back into Count Myrrdin’s cheeks. With a decisive nod, he looked Arthur’s way and pushed to his feet. ‘Sir Arthur, I apologise for not believing you. You warned me that this is a matter of great delicacy. In truth, you have understated the gravity of it. Follow me to the solar, both of you.’
Count Myrrdin led them into the solar and went to stand with his back to the fire. He waved at Arthur. ‘If you please, sir, the door...’
Arthur shut the door.
The solar was large. A semicircle of cushions lay along the window seat of a tall, traceried window. Glass in the upper lights was coloured. Green-and-gold splashes fell across the rush-strewn floor. There was a polished table, a couple of benches, a wall cupboard—Clare had no time to see more.
‘I have no illegitimate children,’ Count Myrrdin said.
Arthur shifted. ‘Few men could be certain of that, my lord.’
‘I am, I was faithful to Mathilde.’ Count Myrrdin tipped his head to one side, eyeing Clare with such intensity that she felt as though she were being flayed alive. ‘I will speak to you in a moment, my dear. First, I have questions for Sir Arthur. Where did you find her?’
‘In Troyes, my lord. I saw her at a joust and was immediately struck by her eyes and their resemblance to yours.’
‘I was unaware that we had met, sir.’
‘We haven’t. You came to Troyes when I was a boy. I saw you talking to Count Henry and I noticed your eyes. My lord, everyone was remarking on them.’
Count Myrrdin lifted a brow at Clare. ‘It’s the strangers who stare the most, don’t you find?’
The question, and the gentle way in which it was phrased, had something inside Clare feeling as though it had snapped. She swallowed. ‘Yes, my lord, they do.’
‘Papa, you may call me Papa.’
Arthur felt his throat tighten. This was it then, his mission was accomplished. The official part, at least. Whatever Count Myrrdin might say about being faithful to his wife, he was obviously prepared to accept Clare as his daughter.
‘Come here, my dear.’
Count Myrrdin led Clare to the fire. When for the second time he lifted a coppery strand of hair and brought it to his nose, Arthur’s skin chilled. What is going on?
‘Forgive me, my dear—’ The Count’s voice cracked. He turned away, fists clenched at his side. When he turned back, his eyes were glassy. He tipped up Clare’s chin and slowly, thoroughly, scoured her features. ‘My daughter,’ he murmured, with much clearing of his throat. ‘At last you have come home.’
At last?
Wrapping his arm about her shoulders, Count Myrrdin’s face relaxed into a smile. ‘My daughter.’ He hugged her. ‘I searched and searched, but never found you.’
Count Myrrdin kept his arm about her. It was plain he was reluctant to take his eyes from her. He kept fingering her hair. Shaking his head. ‘You are made in her image.’
The chill deepened, Arthur recognised it as foreboding and tried to dismiss it. Count Myrrdin was getting on in years, likely he found it hard to recall the sins of his youth. None the less, it was a relief to know that Clare had found her place.
Arthur caught Clare’s eyes. ‘I told you,’ he murmured. ‘I told you, there would be no doubt. You are his love child. You are safe now.’
Snowy eyebrows snapped together—despite his advanced age, there was nothing wrong with Count Myrrdin’s hearing.
‘My love child? You are mistaken, sir, Clare is the image of my Mathilde. She is my daughter, my legitimate daughter.’
Arthur
felt himself go stock-still. ‘Clare is the image of Countess Mathilde?’ His voice sounded as though it belonged to someone else.
‘What’s the matter with you, boy? I told you I have never been unfaithful to Mathilde.’
Clare’s mouth fell open. ‘My hair,’ she muttered, twining a strand round her fingers. ‘In the hall, everyone was looking at my hair as much as my eyes. I must have my mother’s hair.’
‘You do indeed. You have also inherited her delicate features.’ Briefly, the Count tore his gaze from his new-found daughter. ‘Sir Arthur, you weren’t to know, but if you’d seen my Mathilde, you would be in no doubt.’ His eyes lost focus as he gazed down the years and his expression softened. And then he was staring dotingly at Clare again.
Arthur felt as though he had been kicked in the guts. His mind was a shambles.
Clare’s legitimate? I’ve taken her maidenhead and she is heiress to a county. If only I’d known. If Clare had met Count Henry, it’s possible he would have realised, but she left Troyes without meeting him.
His throat was tight. He cleared it. ‘My lord, did Countess Mathilde ever meet Count Henry?’
‘They met in Paris, shortly after our wedding. Why?’
Arthur looked bleakly at Clare. ‘I am sorry you never met Count Henry, he would have recognised your true status immediately, my lady.’
‘My lady,’ Clare echoed, in a dazed tone. She gripped her father’s sleeve. ‘My lord—’
Count Myrrdin made an impatient sound. ‘Papa. I am your father and you must address me as such.’
‘Papa, how can you be sure?’ Clare’s voice was little more than a whisper. ‘I don’t even know when I was born.’
‘No matter, I know exactly how old you are, Mathilde only birthed one child. You are eighteen years of age.’
Clare gasped then took a huge breath. ‘I am legitimate.’
‘Yes, my dear, you are.’ Count Myrrdin stroked her cheek. ‘Sir Arthur, I grant you Clare has my eyes, but these are Mathilde’s features. This is her hair, this is her build. Everything save for the eyes is Mathilde.’ His chest heaved. ‘Clare is Mathilde reborn. If it weren’t for my eyes, Clare is Mathilde come back to life.’ He gave her a possessive hug. ‘Welcome home, my dear. Welcome to Fontaine.’
Unveiling Lady Clare Page 14