Unveiling Lady Clare

by Carol Townend

  ‘Oh, my lord...’ Enora clasped her hands together and gave a wide smile ‘...I would love to be Lady Clare’s maid.’

  Count Myrrdin turned back to Clare. ‘Well, Daughter, will you take Enora as your maid?’

  * * *

  Clare saw Arthur next at supper, but she couldn’t catch his eye. She had been seated on the dais next to her father and Arthur was at the far end of one of the trestles, with the men from the guardhouse. He looked at home with the soldiers, she thought, as she watched him laughing at some witticism of her father’s Captain.

  Briefly, that dark head turned her way—at least she thought it did, but she must have been mistaken, for he immediately hunched his shoulder and leaned his elbow on the trestle in such a way that his gaze fell elsewhere. Her heart ached. Arthur was avoiding her. Truth be told, he was acting as though he barely knew her. It seemed impossible. Was this the same man who had made love to her so tenderly?

  He offered me marriage—won’t he look my way?

  As she glanced again at his averted head, the answer hit her like a blow to the belly. Arthur was concerned for her reputation—he was trying to protect her. He’d been holding himself aloof since they’d left St Peter’s and that had been before he’d known she was legitimate. He would be doubly careful now.

  I am Lady Clare de Fontaine, the legitimate daughter of a count.

  She stiffened her spine. Life was changing beyond all recognition. There were bound to be difficulties, but this—Arthur’s distance—was especially hard to swallow. She must face it though—the world would have certain expectations about how she ought to behave. There would be rules and she must learn them if she was to thrive here.

  Her chest still ached and she groped for her goblet. Surely it shouldn’t hurt so much? Arthur was concerned for her reputation, that was why he was keeping his distance. He would surely be more open with her in private. Her heart lifted—yes, if they met in private, he wouldn’t refuse to speak to her. In private, everything might be easy between them, as it had been in at St Peter’s. She must see him on his own, as soon as possible.

  She stared blindly into her wine. I am a lady. It was hard to absorb. There was one sense in which her title was surely meaningless, a sense in which, although she had found her family, she was still alone.

  Sandro. The charges laid against me in Apulia.

  Those charges had not gone away. She’d learned she was a count’s daughter, yet she felt no more able to discuss them today than she had yesterday. Arthur was the only person in whom she would consider confiding, but his position as Captain of the Guardian Knights made that impossible. No, as far as the accusations levelled against her, her change in status meant nothing. But these thoughts were too bleak for today. She had found her father! She had a family...

  Resolutely, she steered her mind in another direction. Where was Countess Francesca? She must speak to her. All afternoon, she had been watching out for her.

  Her father touched her arm. He was holding out an eating knife with an elaborately tooled blue sheath. ‘Daughter, I should like you to accept this.’

  She took the knife. The handle was ivory and a Celtic pattern swirled on its surface. The blade gleamed razor-sharp in the candlelight—with its blue sheath and carved handle, it was fit for a princess. ‘Thank you, Papa, it’s beautiful.’

  ‘You will share a trencher with me.’

  Clare swallowed. Everyone was staring at her and she wasn’t used to it. Slaves were invisible, ladies were not. What did she know about how a lady was meant to behave? Sitting on the high dais next to her father was beyond her wildest dreams. Yet here she was. After a heart-stopping moment when her mind went blank, it came to her that she was not entirely ignorant. Her father was doing her much honour by sharing his trencher with her. And as an overt signal to his retainers that he had acknowledged her as his heiress, it was a master stroke.

  ‘Thank you, Papa. Is Countess Francesca not eating with us?’

  Count Myrrdin beckoned for a manservant. ‘Dréo, have you seen Francesca?’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  ‘Send to her chamber, will you? I would like her to join us.’

  The servant bowed. Dréo was soon back, returning as Clare was trying not to look down the trestle towards where that broad back and dark head were turned so firmly against her.

  Her father was offering her venison. ‘From our own chase, my dear,’ the Count said. ‘Do try some.’

  ‘My lord?’ Dréo bowed. When he stared blank-faced at the tablecloth, Clare braced herself—she knew exactly what he was going to say. ‘My lord, Countess Francesca is no longer at Fontaine.’

  Count Myrrdin’s fingers stilled on the venison. ‘Don’t be a fool, man, of course she’s at Fontaine.’

  ‘No, my lord. I’ve spoken to Sergeant Léry. The Countess rode out this afternoon.’

  ‘What?’ Count Myrrdin made an impatient noise. ‘What do you say?’

  Dréo’s gaze flickered briefly to Clare. ‘It was shortly after Lady Clare rode in.’

  ‘Hell and damnation.’ Count Myrrdin’s knife clattered to the table. ‘I thought Francesca had more sense than that. I take it she took an escort?’

  ‘Yes, my lord, two grooms. Her maid went, too.’

  Count Myrrdin squinted at a darkened window. ‘The light’s gone, it’s too late to go after her. Did she say where she went?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. She told Sergeant Léry she was going to the manor at St Méen.’

  ‘Why in hell didn’t the sergeant mention this earlier?’

  Dréo kept his eyes firmly on Count Myrrdin’s trencher. ‘The Countess asked the sergeant not to mention her departure until you were about to retire.’

  ‘I see. Thank you, Dréo, that is all.’

  Clare waited, half-expecting that her father would summon a guard and order him to follow Countess Francesca, but he did no such thing. Instead he fell into an abstraction, staring moodily at a pattern in the weave of the cloth and absently picking meat from their trencher.

  ‘Papa?’

  There was no response, not from her father. However, one of the household knights, Sir Brian, looked across. ‘My lady, if I may offer some advice?’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘Best leave your father be for tonight,’ the knight said, quietly. ‘Count Myrrdin is not as young as he was and your arrival is bound to have kicked up the dust.’

  ‘He is unwell?’ Clare shot her father an anxious look. She had only just found him, she didn’t want to lose him again.

  ‘No, no,’ Sir Brian hastened to assure her. ‘It is just that he has these...spells from time to time.’

  ‘Odd silences? Moments of dreaminess?’

  ‘Yes, my lady, just so. He will be himself again shortly. My advice is to say nothing too taxing until tomorrow.’

  Clare nodded and speared herself a piece of venison. She chewed thoughtfully. What should she do about Countess Francesca? The poor woman must be in some distress to have ridden out of Fontaine so abruptly. Her father should have realised, he should have sought Francesca out, if only to relieve the poor girl’s mind.

  Was it possible that her father’s so-called ‘spells’ masked a deep malaise? Clare hoped she was wrong, but given he professed real feelings for the Countess, he really should have made some attempt to talk to her this afternoon. Surely a few words of reassurance wouldn’t have been too taxing? Something was wrong, very wrong.

  ‘Sir Brian?’

  ‘My lady?’

  Count Myrrdin looked as though he was in another world. He was tracing arabesques in the damask tablecloth with the hilt of his knife. Clare didn’t want to risk upsetting him by mentioning Countess Francesca, but she couldn’t bear it if the Countess felt she had been driven from her home. Since Count Myrrdin was obviously le
ss capable than he had first appeared, it was up to her to try to help. She must speak to her adopted sister. Soon.

  The Countess must be made to see that Count Myrrdin loved her and that she would always be welcome at Fontaine.

  She lowered her voice. ‘How far is it to the manor at St Méen, sir?’

  ‘About twelve miles, my lady,’ Sir Brian said, reaching for the bread.

  ‘So it would take two or three hours to reach it?’

  ‘On horseback? Yes, my lady, that would be about right.’

  Her shoulders drooped. ‘Then it’s too late to send someone after her this evening.’

  Sir Brian set the bread aside. ‘I should think so. Particularly with the snow.’

  ‘It’s snowing?’

  ‘Yes, my lady, it started as night fell.’

  * * *

  Clare had been given a bedchamber in one of the towers and a whole bed to herself. It was odd to wake alone next morning. She yawned and stretched, luxuriating in the feel of the clean linen sheets, of the softness of a mattress filled entirely with down...

  Her father might have failed to reassure his adopted daughter of her continuing welcome at Fontaine, but not only had he given Clare a personal maid, he had also insisted that a host of gowns be made for her. When Clare had explained that she already had several new gowns, Count Myrrdin had brushed that aside. Enora had been taken with her into a chamber where the walls were lined with brightly painted clothes-chests. A gown in topaz-coloured silk had been found in one of them. It fitted her exactly. Clare was shown some green brocade from Thessaly and several lengths of English worsted even finer than the wool she had bought at Arthur’s behest.

  ‘This green looks warm,’ she had said.

  ‘Have it,’ Count Myrrdin had said. ‘It will make a good cloak.’

  ‘I already have a cloak.’

  ‘You will need more than one.’ Count Myrrdin had looked at Enora. ‘I want nothing but the best for my daughter. Make her whatever she likes.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  With that, Count Myrrdin had swept out, white tunic trailing after him. ‘I shall see you in the hall later, my dear.’

  ‘Yes, Papa.’

  Yesterday, Clare had been so overwhelmed she hadn’t given enough thought to her father’s strange moments of distraction. This morning, however, she lay in bed, thinking. Remembering Sir Brian’s warning: ...your arrival is bound to have kicked up the dust...he has these...spells...

  It would seem that whilst her father appeared physically fit, that same might not be said of his mind.

  She must speak to Countess Francesca. She would know what to do.

  She flung back the bedcovers, snatched up a shawl and padded to the lancet. Her breath misted the air. She tugged open the shutter, wiped frost flowers from the glass with her fist and peered out.

  The sky was murky and the light poor. Snowflakes were falling in thick flurries and everything was white—the castle walls, the bailey, even the water in the troughs. Unfamiliar as she was with Fontaine, the snow-bleached landscape looked entirely alien. Tree branches were fat with snow and she could no longer see the road through the forest.

  A blur of green caught her eyes. A hooded man—it was Arthur, she knew that cloak—was crossing the bailey. She watched him go into the stables, then quickly turned to dress herself. If she hurried, she might catch him. She wanted to talk with him—she would welcome his advice regarding her new role in life—and the stables might be just the place. With only the stable boys and horses to hear them, Arthur would surely lose his new-found formality.

  She would start by asking him to escort her to St Méen to see Countess Francesca.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Arthur? Sir Arthur?’ Clare stepped out of a biting wind and into the relative warmth of the stable. Steel was in the end stall and she could hear the quiet murmur of conversation—Arthur was talking to one of the grooms.

  Surprised brown eyes turned her way. ‘Lady Clare?’

  Hugging her cloak to her, Clare went towards him. ‘Good morning, sir. I’ve come to ask a favour of you.’

  ‘My lady?’

  My lady. Clare felt a chill that had nothing to do with winter. ‘Arthur, I’d like to ride to a nearby manor and I need an escort. Would you accompany me?’

  Arthur drew his head back, frowning. ‘How near is this manor?’

  ‘I’m told it’s a couple of hours away.’

  The dark head shook. ‘I don’t think you should be riding in this weather, my lady. Not even for half an hour. I am sure Count Myrrdin’s men will agree with me.’ Arthur nodded a dismissal at the groom. ‘Thank you, Marc, that will be all.’

  ‘Please, Arthur, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’

  He folded his arms across his chest. ‘I fail to see what could be so important that you would risk riding off into the teeth of a snowstorm—’

  ‘Countess Francesca left Fontaine shortly after we arrived. I need to speak to her.’

  Arthur propped a broad shoulder against the end wall. ‘She’s upset and you want to make amends.’

  Clare took a step nearer, looking earnestly up at him. ‘Arthur, you must see it’s important.’ She hesitated, unwilling to say anything that might show her father in a poor light. ‘I want her to understand that I didn’t intend that she should be...’

  ‘Disinherited?’

  Briefly, she closed her eyes. ‘Put like that, it sounds terrible.’

  He shrugged. ‘Well, whether or not it’s what you intended, that is the result. She’s not likely to be dancing with joy.’

  Clare glared at him. ‘You make it sound as though I planned to take her place all along and you know that’s not true. Whose fault is it I came?’ She poked a finger at him. ‘If you hadn’t gone to Count Henry, I’d not be here at all.’

  His face hardened. ‘You regret coming?’

  ‘Of course not, I’m thrilled to meet my father.’ She sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Arthur, I’m pleased to be here and I have no business blaming you. It’s just that I never dreamed that my life could be so transformed. Arthur, I’m legitimate!’

  His mouth twisted. ‘Makes quite a difference, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It makes no difference to who I am, as you of all people will appreciate. But I certainly didn’t expect it. And you have to admit it makes difficulties—Countess Francesca is but one. If my father holds true to his word, I am his heiress. Arthur...’ she smiled ‘...you’re wearing your stony look and I wish you wouldn’t. I need your counsel. I have no experience at playing the lady. I would like to ask, to beg, if need be, that you delay your return to Champagne.’

  ‘My lady, it’s my intention to leave as soon as the storm clears.’

  Outside, the sound of shovels scraping against stone spoke of the battle the grooms were waging to keep the bailey clear of snow.

  ‘That may not be for some days. Arthur, please stay. At least for a little while. I need your counsel.’

  ‘Your father will tell you everything you need to know.’

  ‘I wish I could be sure of that,’ Clare murmured. ‘There are times when my father is somewhat...vague.’

  ‘There’s bound to be a steward here, you can ask him.’

  She put her hand on his forearm. He seemed intent on keeping a wall between them, yet surely it was unnecessary—the groom had gone, they were the only people here. ‘Arthur, don’t you remember? Countess Francesca’s husband is steward of Fontaine.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘I am sure Count Tristan is honourable, my father wouldn’t have chosen him to marry Francesca otherwise, but I doubt very much that he will take kindly to having to explain the management of this estate to the woman who is snatching it from his grasp. Arthur, I really need your help. You wi
ll understand the challenges ahead of me.’

  ‘Will I?’

  ‘Don’t be obtuse. Arthur, I’m not blind to your achievements. You were not born to knighthood—you have risen through the ranks the hard way. You must be able to help me.’ She frowned, as a hazy memory snapped into focus. ‘You were Count Lucien’s steward, were you not?’

  He gave a brusque nod. ‘I was steward at Ravenshold before I joined the Guardians.’

  She smiled brightly. ‘There you are then, you are just the man I need.’

  ‘Clare...Lady Clare, I have to return to Troyes.’

  ‘Why?’

  Clare’s question knocked Arthur back and it was a moment before he found a response.

  Because, my innocent, you have moved beyond my reach. You are an heiress, and I cannot bear to sit in your father’s hall, watching you from afar. I ache to hold you, to feel the warmth of your skin next to mine. I want to learn every inch of your body. I want the scent of lavender to be more than mere memory; I want it winding through my senses at every dusk and dawn. I want to kiss that curving mouth, to...

  ‘Cl...my lady, you know I am sworn to Count Henry. I must return to Troyes.’

  ‘But, Arthur—’

  ‘I have given my word, on sacred oath. I am Captain of the Guardians.’

  ‘You were sworn to Count Lucien, yet you serve Count Henry. Couldn’t you swear to my fath—?’

  ‘No!’ Arthur softened his voice and laid his hand on her kidskin glove. ‘Clare, you must see I have to return.’

  Mismatched eyes gazed up at him. She drew in a deep breath. ‘I understand. Your commitments in Troyes are important.’ Her gaze sharpened. ‘I think there is more to it than that.’

  ‘More?’

  Her shoulders lifted. ‘It is merely an impression. You were most reluctant to leave Troyes. Something pulls you back, something you feel you must face.’

  Arthur stared. ‘How on earth do you know that?’

  She smiled. ‘What is it, Arthur? Tell me.’

  ‘It... I...’ Inexplicably, her insight made him want to pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless. ‘It concerns my humble birth. You put your finger on the nub of it when you said I was not born to my position. Unfortunately, Troyes is full of knights who were.’