Clare made an impatient sound. ‘Noble knights with legitimacy on their side are ten a penny, I expect.’
The scorn in her voice made him smile. It was almost as though she could see no difference between him and a knight born into the nobility. She would soon learn. It was early days for her at Fontaine, but it was likely Count Myrrdin would find a well-bred knight for her to take to husband. Or maybe a count. The Lord of Fontaine had found a count for the girl he had brought up as his, and he would hardly do otherwise with the daughter who was his true flesh and blood.
Arthur didn’t want to be around to watch that.
‘As you say, they are ten a penny. And Count Henry has chosen one, Sir Raphael de Reims, to act as Captain of the Guardians whilst I am away.’
‘You fear he will supplant you.’ It was not a question.
‘I need to watch my back.’ Arthur stared at the wall behind her. ‘I am concerned lest Count Henry should decide that Sir Raphael is the better man.’
‘He won’t do that.’
Her calm certainty stole the words from his lips and he stared at her as, with a shy, tantalising smile, she turned away.
Instinctively, he put out a hand to draw her back. ‘I shall stay for a few days, my lady, if that is of use.’ He shrugged. ‘The snow. And Ivo—he’s too valuable to risk with the lung fever.’
She gave him a warm look, a look that made Arthur forget they were standing in an icy stable with their breath forming clouds about them. ‘Arthur, you can’t fool me, you are fond of that boy.’
‘That I am.’ Realising he had retained her hand, he released it and shoved back his hair. ‘My lady, if it pleases you, when the weather eases I will escort you to this manor. But after that, I will return to Troyes.’
Leaning forwards, she went up on her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Heat shivered through him.
‘Thank you, Arthur, you are a true friend. I know my father would grant me another escort, but I so much prefer it to be you. Everyone...everything here is so strange.’
Arthur cleared his throat and tried not to look at her mouth. He couldn’t stop thinking about the sort of deep, drugging kiss he really wanted. ‘It will take some getting used to, I am sure.’
‘That is an understatement.’
Arthur swallowed. That small kiss had been a revelation. It had been offered in a casual manner and had felt like a kiss of genuine affection, but he had no real idea what she was thinking. She was smiling that innocent smile at him—apparently completely unaware that he burned for an altogether different sort of kiss. A real one. He wanted to kiss her in the way he had kissed her in the dormitory at the monastery. As a lover. Which reminded him...there was something he must have out with her and it was likely to prove awkward.
I took her innocence. She must not suffer for it.
‘My lady?’
Some of the light went out of her expression. ‘I prefer it when you call me Clare.’
‘My lady,’ he repeated, firmly. ‘I have been thinking about what happened between us at the monastery and have come to a decision. I must tell your father.’
Her breath caught. Small fingers reached for his tunic. ‘Not about what we...that you and I... Arthur, no! You cannot be serious.’
‘I am. Clare, you must see that I...that we... It shouldn’t have happened. Your father is bound to find a husband for you and when he does... Clare, you should go to him chaste.’
Her chin jutted out. ‘Arthur, I explained, I have no wish to marry, so it’s irrelevant.’
He shook his head. ‘Clare, as heiress of Fontaine, you must marry. Your father will insist upon it.’
‘Father will do as I say.’ She spoke forcefully, but Arthur could see she was trying to convince herself.
He squeezed her arm. ‘You might persuade your father round to your way of thinking, but believe me, you won’t persuade the English king.’
‘King Henry?’ She blinked. ‘What has my marriage to do with King Henry?’
He took a deep breath. She really was such an innocent. ‘Brittany is a Duchy and King Henry is overlord. He will not permit a large county in Brittany to be left in the hands of a woman.’
‘You would put me in bondage?’
His eyebrows shot up. ‘In bondage? I merely state the obvious. Fontaine is a rich county, it needs a strong hand on the reins.’
‘I’ve already told you, I’ve no wish to marry.’
‘Clare, it’s inevitable.’
‘Arthur, I will never marry. Not you, not anyone.’ With an angry flurry of skirts and a swirl of her cloak, she stalked from the stable.
Arthur’s finger lifted to his cheek, where her kiss burned on his skin.
* * *
Following their meeting in the stables, Clare didn’t speak to Arthur for almost a week and, with little to occupy him until the roads were clear, her parting shot rang in his mind. I will never marry.
More snow fell. The roads were choked with it, and they were cut off from the outside world. The forest of Brocéliande was a dazzling white. Sounds were muted. Icicles ringed the castle battlements—a glittering garland that sparkled in the sun. One day it began to thaw and the soft drip of icicles was everywhere. Dark puddles formed in the shadows under the walls. Then it snowed again and another garland of ice ran around the castle walls.
I will never marry.
Oddly, Clare’s vehemence had lifted a weight from Arthur’s mind. At the monastery, she had rejected his offer of marriage with such speed, it had felt like a slap in the face. The sting of her rejection had lingered and Arthur had felt insulted. Hurt. Befuddled by a powerful mixture of desire and need, he hadn’t been thinking straight.
But supposing Clare’s objection hadn’t been to him personally, but to the sacrament of marriage?
I will never marry. She spoke with such conviction. Why? It was almost as though she was afraid of marriage, but how could that be? Most women longed for it. They spent their days hinting, begging or cajoling men into it. Even Gabrielle, who made no bones about how she made her living, had dropped so many hints Arthur’s way that he had been forced to warn her that if the hints continued, he would seek his pleasure elsewhere.
Clare’s antipathy to marriage was rare, but not, in his experience, unique. His mother’s face rose up in his mind. Like Clare, his mother’s fear of marriage had been strong, yet she’d been blissfully content living in sin with his father.
Arthur had been a boy when his mother died. He’d often wondered about his parents’ unsanctioned relationship. When he’d questioned them, they’d refused to explain, but Arthur had overheard them talking from time to time, and he’d been able to piece together enough to realise that his mother must have been already married when she’d met his father.
Her husband had mistreated her and, when Arthur’s father had offered her sanctuary, she had been quick to move to the house by the forge. His parents had been happy despite their illicit relationship and despite the taunting of some of the townsfolk. They’d called her a slut. A whore. His mother had been deaf to the insults, insults which had stopped only when Miles won the approval of Count Henry and was given his spurs.
His mother had avoided remarriage because of her husband’s violence. What had given Clare her loathing of marriage?
While Arthur waited for the road back to Champagne to emerge from beneath its covering of snow and ice, he vowed to find out. It didn’t prove easy. As one wintry day followed another, it became obvious that Clare was so angered by his remarks concerning marriage that she was avoiding him. He began to think that he had dreamed she had asked him to escort her to St Méen.
One evening he saw her warming her hands by the fire in the hall, her maid at her side. She left the hall as he entered.
Coincidence? Possibly.
T
he next day, he tried a more direct approach, going up to her in the bailey. She spoke to him but briefly.
‘Excuse me, sir, I must speak to the cook.’ With that, she slipped into the bakehouse, leaving him staring at the door.
Another coincidence? Not likely.
When Arthur next saw her, she was standing by the drawbridge, talking to Sergeant Léry. He simply raised an eyebrow at her and he knew she had seen him because she stuck her nose in the air. She made no move to join him.
Another time he was leaving the stables, when a movement up on the wall-walk caught his eye, the flutter of a green veil. Clare was promenading along the battlements on her father’s arm. Given she wouldn’t speak to him, it was obvious she had changed her mind about accepting his escort when she went to St Méen. His mention of marriage had scared her off.
She fears marriage. Why? It’s not the act of love that she fears, she was eager enough to bed with me. What is she afraid of?
Arthur had been half-hoping she had forgotten his impulsive offer of marriage. It hadn’t seemed impulsive at the time, it had seemed a perfectly logical solution to many dilemmas, not least of which was that he liked the woman and hadn’t wanted to part from her. But that had been before he had known the truth of her birth.
Like it or not, Clare would have to marry. Count Myrrdin had acknowledged her, so her marriage would be dynastic. The King of England would approve it and it would be accompanied by much fanfare.
What would her husband do when he realised she was not a virgin? Clare wouldn’t be the first noblewoman to have lost her innocence before her marriage, but it could cause problems. Fortunately, her father’s estates were extensive and would likely sweeten the blow to her husband’s pride. None the less, Arthur couldn’t shake the guilt.
Nor could he, as he watched her from afar, shake his desire for her. A desire which burned in his veins. Illicit. Dangerous. In one sense, they remained strangers. In another, he knew her intimate secrets. He’d never forget the warmth of her slender body as she tucked herself against him in sleep. He’d never forget the softness of her hair. He knew the small sounds she made when the pleasure took her. Her scent—he held in a groan—summers would never be the same, lavender would always remind him of her. As he watched the progress of that green veil as it moved along the wall-walk, he sighed. It seemed that once again, he had misread her. Clare—Lady Clare—was adapting to life at Fontaine.
The sooner he was gone, the better he would feel.
* * *
Arthur was saddling Steel, preparing to assess the state of the roads, when the light in the stable dimmed. A groom had entered and Clare was standing in the doorway, pulling on her gloves. Arthur held back a frown—was she planning on riding before they knew the highways were clear? She was wearing another cloak, a green one, and her veil matched it. Her veil also—Arthur’s frown deepened—hid that glorious red hair.
‘Good day, Sir Arthur,’ she said, with a polite smile. ‘Where’s Ivo? Are you leaving without him?’
Buckling Steel’s girth, Arthur shook his head. ‘Ivo was in the armoury when I last saw him. It didn’t snow yesterday and I’m about to see which roads are passable.’ His chain mail chinked as he leaned against Steel. A few stalls away a groom was saddling the black pony. ‘My lady, you surely weren’t planning on riding today?’
Her chin lifted. ‘I must speak to the Comtesse des Iles.’
‘You’re going to St Méen? My lady, I would advise you waited until we have assessed the roads.’
Her foot tapped, her eyes flashed. ‘Sir, it’s my belief the Countess is distressed. And Papa is missing her. I need to see her sooner rather than later.’
Arthur knew that look. She wasn’t going to change her mind. ‘I assume you will take an escort?’
She waved at the groom. ‘Conan is accompanying me.’
‘One groom? No guards?’
She shook her head and the green veil rippled about her.
Arthur’s hand tightened round Steel’s girth. If an accident befell them, one groom wouldn’t be enough. Never mind the ice and snow, there could be outlaws in these woods. ‘You need more than a groom.’
‘Arth—sir, my father thinks I will be safe.’
‘You need a proper guard. My lady, I think I had better accompany you.’
Her brow wrinkled. ‘Isn’t St Méen out of your way?’
‘It’s not precisely on my route, but I won’t hear of you riding without a decent escort.’ Arthur’s heart lightened. He hadn’t planned to ride in that direction, but the chance to bid her farewell without an audience hanging on his every word was undeniably cheering.
‘You’re certain? I don’t want to delay your return to Champagne.’
‘A day won’t make much difference.’
Clare stood back as he led Steel into the bailey and they waited by a water trough for the groom to bring out her horse. Arthur studied her. There were faint smudges beneath her eyes—perhaps she wasn’t adjusting to life as a lady as easily as he’d thought. The rich clothes suited her, although he wouldn’t mind pulling off that veil and running his fingers through her hair. Just once more...just once...
‘Yet another cloak?’ he said. ‘That green looks well on you.’
‘Thank you. I have three cloaks now and at least a dozen gowns. And a maid.’
‘That is—as it should be.’
She gave him a blank look. ‘Is it? Enora’s a sweet girl, but I hardly know what to say to her. All this is very strange.’
‘You seem to have settled in well.’
Her eyebrows lifted. ‘Hardly.’
‘Your father will help you accustom yourself to life as a lady.’
She gave him another blank look and shrugged. ‘Perhaps, but Papa’s vagueness doesn’t help.’
‘Vagueness?’
‘Papa seems to have forgotten I’ve had no training in managing servants or in running a household. My accent is foreign—I shall need lessons in speaking properly so everyone will understand me.’
‘Your diction has always been perfectly clear to me.’
‘Maybe, but I am uncertain how to comport myself in public and—’
She broke off, Conan was leading out the horses. Noticing a pack behind the groom’s saddle, Arthur shot her a look.
‘Papa insisted Conan brought blankets and food with us.’
‘I see Count Myrrdin’s vagueness only extends so far,’ he murmured, drily.
Clare pursed her lips and shook her head. ‘You don’t understand,’ she said softly, and mounted Swift. ‘I don’t think Papa is very well. He’s not at all well.’
Arthur fell silent. Count Myrrdin looked unusually fit for a man of his years. He’d found her a maid; he’d ordered her an array of gowns a queen would envy. Admittedly it was odd that he was willing to let her ride abroad without a proper escort. Thoughtfully, he clapped on his helmet and kicked Steel’s flanks, and they clattered across the icy cobbles and under the portcullis. The groom, muffled in his cloak and hood, brought up the rear.
There’d been scarcely any traffic. The snow was crisp and fresh and crunched beneath the horses’ hoofs. The woods were blindingly bright, and the shadows blue. Before long Clare’s eyes were aching. Wooden stakes were driven in at intervals along the margin of the road. Waymarkers. Clare hadn’t noticed them on her arrival and today they were hardly necessary, but she could see that, if the snow drifted, they would be invaluable.
Arthur’s saddle creaked as he turned to her. ‘How long has Countess Francesca been at St Méen?’
‘A little over a week.’ Clare sighed. ‘Her absence is upsetting Papa. I decided I really must try to bring her back.’
Arthur pushed up his visor. ‘She may resent your visit.’
‘She may, but I rather think she’ll be miss
ing Papa and everyone at Fontaine. Apparently Count Tristan is still at Rennes, so she’ll be on her own. She must be miserable.’
‘Cl—my lady, you’ve just found your father, so naturally you can’t imagine losing him again, but the Countess has been used to thinking of herself as his daughter. She’s likely to be feeling some anger, not only against you, but also against Count Myrrdin.’
‘She can’t blame Papa—it wasn’t his fault someone stole me! Nor was it his fault someone deceived him by putting her in my place.’
‘She’s bound to be dwelling on it. She’ll be wondering if the person responsible is still at Fontaine. She may never want to return.’
‘On the other hand, she might want to find her real parents...’
Arthur was quick to shake his head. His helmet flashed in the light. Clare was glad he had lifted his visor; a knight’s face was impossible to read with his visor down. And he was more human—more Arthur—with his visor up. She liked looking at him. She’d missed him these past few days. Her throat ached. She’d miss him when he left.
He looked soberly at her. ‘My lady, she has been brought up to think of herself as the daughter of a count. The odds are that her real parents will be far less exalted. How well do you think she will relate to someone from the lower orders?’
‘Status,’ she murmured, frowning at him. ‘How it seems to obsess you.’
Arthur narrowed his eyes against the low winter sun. ‘Everyone has their place, my lady. Lord, knight, monk, peasant—we must all play our part.’
‘And the heavens will fall if someone moves from one level to another?’
He looked at her, wooden-faced. Sensing that he was hiding a profound hurt, she reached a hand towards him. When he made no move to take it, she withdrew it, flushing.
‘This has something to do with your brother’s death, doesn’t it? Arthur, what happened to Miles? How did he die?’
‘He died in the lists at Troyes Castle. We were told it was a training session that went wrong. An accident.’ His mouth tightened. ‘That was one version.’
Unveiling Lady Clare Page 17