Unveiling Lady Clare

by Carol Townend

  ‘There were other versions?’

  His shoulders lifted, the gesture was anything but casual. ‘Father learned that Miles was cornered by not one, but three knights, each with twice his experience.’ He grimaced. ‘Apparently, Miles was unhorsed and it came down to hand-to-hand fighting. He didn’t stand a chance.’

  ‘And the men who killed him? Was nothing done?’

  ‘I was a boy at the time and Father didn’t tell me the whole. I do know that before Miles died he mentioned one of the knights as being particularly resentful of him.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Miles won his spurs in place of his son.’

  ‘So Miles was cornered by three knights...’

  ‘Three brothers with an impeccable lineage who couldn’t stand to see the illegitimate son of an armourer given precedence over their own flesh and blood. They swore it was a training accident.’

  ‘It seems odd that Count Henry did nothing...’

  ‘Count Henry was in Paris. Father went to see him on his return, but it came down to the word of the three knights present at Miles’s death against the word of an armourer who was not.’ Another shrug. ‘You may guess the outcome. Father was told that knights die in training every day and that is certainly true. What could he do?’

  Clare sighed. ‘Arthur, Miles’s death was tragic, but you’re letting it rule you. You’re assuming all noblemen think in the same way as those who killed him.’ Her chest heaved. ‘You have ample evidence to the contrary, yet you wilfully ignore it. As I heard it, Count Lucien d’Aveyron took you on as his steward and after that Count Henry of Champagne offered you captaincy of the Guardians. Surely that is proof enough that not all noblemen are cast in the mould of your brother’s killers?’

  Silence fell. They passed a fallen tree trunk shrouded in white. Animal tracks—a deer, a fox—trailed this way and that. They had proceeded another hundred yards before Arthur spoke again.

  ‘I admit I’ve been fortunate to find service with open-hearted men. Count Henry and Count Lucien are rare among their peers.’

  ‘I wonder if they are as rare as you make out. Are the barriers between a knight and his lord as high as you seem to think? I am not sure. In truth, I wonder if it isn’t you who are putting up the barriers.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Seek and ye shall find—you look for barriers and you find them.’ Even as she spoke, Clare realised she had hit on the truth—Arthur needed to know the barriers were in place. What she couldn’t fathom was why.

  Dark eyes flashed. ‘I? It is not I who build barriers, my lady. Others do that. Some are born to rule, others must live more humble lives.’

  ‘So these barriers can never be breached? That’s nonsense. What about that Norman Duke—what was his name? The one who was a bastard?’

  He gave a curt laugh. ‘I believe you are referring to Duke William of Normandy.’

  ‘He became King of England—’

  ‘Clare, King William might have been illegitimate, but his father was Duke of Normandy.’

  Clare. Her lips curved. He was calling her Clare again. ‘William of Normandy’s noble blood helped him, is that what you are saying?’

  Wide shoulders lifted. ‘Your life is changing, is it not? And that is entirely thanks to your birth.’

  ‘And the fact that I am legitimate. I wonder which is the greater barrier to advancement—low birth or illegitimacy?’ She looked thoughtfully at him and lowered her voice. ‘There’s no need to answer that. Arthur, I’m not trying to provoke you. There’s something I need to ask and I find myself hesitating because it concerns what I believe to be the most insurmountable barrier of them all. One which you, I believe, have overcome.’

  ‘My lady?’

  ‘It concerns prejudice. Arthur...’ Hesitating, she glanced over her shoulder. The groom was trailing them by several yards and, with his hood up, she doubted that he could hear them.

  Steel’s bit jangled. ‘Clare, you should know you may tell me anything.’

  Clare.

  ‘I would like to think so.’ She gripped the reins. She had already confessed that she was finding it hard to adjust to life as Count Myrrdin’s daughter and it had been no lie. None the less, her next confession wasn’t going to be easy. ‘Rest assured, I shall not ask you to remain at Fontaine, I understand about your commitments in Troyes, but I really would welcome your advice.’

  He bowed his head. ‘I will do my utmost to help.’

  The snow-covered road was sloping down a gentle incline. The trees grew less thickly here. Above the frosted branches, shadowy wisps of smoke were winding into the sky—there were cottages close by.

  She cleared her throat. ‘This concerns something that happened long ago.’

  ‘After you were taken from Brittany?’

  She gave a brief nod. ‘I shall tell you my earliest memory.’ Smoke was twisting up through the branches. She fixed her gaze on it. ‘My earliest memory is of being cared for by a woman in Apulia. Her name was—is—Veronica. The day I realised she was not my mother is engraved in my mind. It was summer. Outside, the bees were murmuring on the terrace. The door was open, sunlight was pouring in, and the floor—it was white marble, streaked with grey—was warm under my toes. Veronica was arranging lilies in a vase on a side table and I was helping her. I was clumsy and water was spilt. She hit me.’ Clare fingered her mouth as she remembered the sting of that blow. It had cut her lip. ‘“Slave,” she said. “Clumsy slave.” She owned me.’

  Clare wasn’t looking at Arthur as she spoke, but she could tell by the way Steel tossed his head that he had jerked on the reins.

  ‘She owned you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Clare kept her eyes firmly on a skein of geese straggling through the sky.

  ‘And she hit you?’

  ‘Many times.’ A lump formed in her throat. She had to swallow to continue. ‘I know Veronica must have hit me before then, because I don’t recall being surprised. But that was the first time that I remember, the time that she called me a clumsy slave. I was lucky, I was never whipped—’

  Arthur swore. ‘Clare, for pity’s sake, look at me.’

  Bracing herself for she knew not what—scorn? Pity?—Clare looked. His hand—large and clad in a knight’s mail gauntlet—was stretched towards her. The tension ran out of her like water through a sieve. With a sigh, she put her hand in his and felt him give her a comforting squeeze. Her eyes stung and the white forest was lost in a dazzle of tears.

  ‘When we set out from Troyes, I thought I would never speak of this.’ She gave a strained laugh.

  ‘I am honoured that you confide in me. I suspected there was more darkness in your past, but this...’ he gave a puzzled frown ‘...why wait until now to tell me?’

  She threw another glance behind her.

  ‘Clare, you may speak freely, the groom’s not listening, he’s too busy wondering how long we will be and whether he’ll have to eat a cold supper.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Arthur could hardly believe his ears. Clare had been enslaved? She had been owned by a woman in Apulia named Veronica? His first instinct was to fire a barrage of questions at her. How long were you a slave? How did you win your freedom? Did you run away? Holding himself in check was hard, but he managed it. This couldn’t be easy for her; he mustn’t push her.

  Her face was pinched with cold and her nose was faintly blue, but it was the tightness about her eyes that concerned him. The strain. Clare has been carrying this burden alone for too long.

  Her chest heaved. ‘Arthur, I really don’t want anyone else to learn of this.’

  ‘You may rely on my discretion.’

  ‘Thank you...’ She hesitated. ‘There are two reasons I am telling you. The first is that I would value your opinion. Do you th
ink my father should be told? He’s been asking about my life in Apulia. After we’d left Troyes, I was confident I could keep my past to myself. It seemed to me that what happened to Count Myrrdin’s illegitimate daughter was unimportant, but—’

  ‘Unimportant!’ Arthur stared at her. ‘Clare, no one should be enslaved, whatever their status. I knew such things went on, but I never dreamed I’d actually come face to face with it. You suffered a grave injustice. The slavers—and those who sold you—should pay for their crimes. They must be stopped!’

  ‘It would be good to know that justice had been served, but...’ her hood fell back as she shook her head and several bright tendrils of hair escaped ‘...I really want to leave the past behind me. Yet I find I am an heiress. Should Papa be told?’

  ‘Being a noblewoman certainly puts a different complexion on everything. You have responsibilities.’

  She shot him a sharp look. ‘Responsibilities? Am I doing wrong by not telling Papa?’

  ‘You fear how he will react.’

  Her head dipped, and a burnished curl trembled. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Count Myrrdin will be horrified, any father would.’ Arthur spoke firmly. ‘And it’s my belief you should tell him. If slavers were at work in Fontaine when you were an infant, they could be here now. He needs to know.’

  Those unusual eyes searched his. ‘Arthur, I am truly worried about Papa. You must have noticed—sometimes he falls silent and stares into the distance, and at other times he wanders off the middle of a conversation.’

  ‘I’ve not heard mention of this from his household knights.’

  ‘You’re an outsider—they may be reluctant to speak frankly before you.’ Her breast heaved. ‘I very much doubt that Papa can cope with any more...surprises.’

  Arthur grunted. He hadn’t noticed anything amiss with Count Myrrdin, but he was ruefully aware that since arriving in Fontaine, it had been Clare, rather than her father, who had been the focus of his thoughts.

  ‘There’s more.’ Her breath huffed out in the cold air. ‘Papa is clearly anxious about Countess Francesca and I expected him to send after her. They need to speak to each other, yet he does nothing. It’s as though he’s paralysed—he seems incapable of taking decisive action. It was I who insisted on riding out to St Méen to try to bring her back. Doesn’t it strike you as odd that Papa hasn’t sent for her?’

  ‘Likely he hoped the Countess would come to her senses. And the roads have been bad.’

  Arthur was sure Clare’s worry for her father was groundless. She was a nervous person—and now that she had confessed about her grim past, he understood she had reason to be nervous. Slavery. Lord. What hell to be at someone’s beck and call at every hour of every day. The contrast between her past in Apulia and the future opening up in front of her couldn’t be more marked. Such a startling rise in status—dizzying...

  ‘Clare, Count Myrrdin doesn’t strike me as being overly frail. My recommendation is that you tell him everything as soon as you can.’ He cleared his throat. ‘You mentioned having two reasons for telling me about your past...?’

  She bit her lip. ‘It’s about the slavers. Given you’re a Guardian Knight, I dare say I should have told you about this earlier.’ She took a huge breath. ‘Never mind Fontaine, there are slavers in Troyes.’

  Arthur felt his jaw drop. ‘Slavers? In Troyes?’

  ‘They’re the reason I left. I...I thought I should mention it, as you might like to look into it when you return.’

  ‘I most certainly would, Count Henry will be appalled,’ Arthur said. ‘It’s a pity you said nothing sooner.’

  Her eyes lowered. ‘I am sorry.’

  He sent her an easy smile, to cover the cramping in his belly. She hadn’t trusted him. It wasn’t surprising given her past, but it was hurtful. He had liked her at first sight and he’d assumed she felt the same. ‘You were afraid, I expect. You hadn’t known me long. Would you recognise them?’

  ‘I know one of them—my master used to buy his slaves from him—his name is Lorenzo da Verona. In Apulia he is known as the Veronese.’ She shook her head, her eyes sad. ‘The irony is, I...I went to Troyes because I thought I would be safe. I knew slavery was banned in Champagne and I’d heard about the Guardian Knights. I was certain no slaver would dare set foot anywhere near Troyes and the Guardians.’

  For the second time that morning, Arthur found himself struggling to make sense of what Clare was telling him. There were slavers in Troyes. She was saying something about not wanting to leave Nicola and Nell, but that having seen the slaver—the Veronese—she had felt she had no choice. She had feared recapture. And all he could think about was that she had been enslaved and that the slavers must be stopped.

  He found himself frowning at her, stomach tight with hurt. ‘If only you’d told me, you must know I would have helped.’

  She looked away. ‘I’m sorry. I would have told you, but I have some pride. If I’d told you, it would have meant confessing that I had been a slave. I was ashamed.’

  He studied her profile, eyes lingering on the curve of her cheek, on the coppery twists of her hair, on the slight pout to her lips.

  ‘Clare, I am honoured that you have managed to put your trust in me,’ he said softly. ‘And I realise you may find this painful, but before I leave for Troyes, I should like you to tell me as much as you know about Lorenzo da Verona.’

  Her eyes went wide. ‘I never want to see that man again.’

  ‘That’s understandable. But you do realise that if he could be caught, your testimony could be invaluable?’

  ‘My testimony?’ Her voice cracked and she lowered her voice. ‘What can you mean? I don’t want the world to know I was enslaved.’

  A muscle jumped in Arthur’s jaw. Was he pushing her too far? Or was there more that she was not telling him? He shrugged. ‘It may not be necessary. When I reach home, the Veronese is likely to have slipped away, he may never be caught—’

  ‘But if he is, you want me to testify against him? In Count Henry’s court?’

  ‘It would help.’

  ‘I couldn’t do that,’ she said, voice high. ‘Arthur, I simply couldn’t!’

  ‘Very well,’ he said, soothingly. ‘No one shall force you into anything.’

  ‘Swear you won’t tell anyone...’ she threw a hunted look over her shoulder ‘...about my life in Apulia?’

  ‘I shan’t breathe a word without your permission. As I said, we may never find the man. But before I leave for home, I’d appreciate it if you could furnish me with his description.’

  She gave a tight nod and Arthur couldn’t press for more. She had already suffered more than most and he had no wish to add to her sufferings.

  ‘My lady?’ Behind them, the groom cleared his throat. ‘The manor is half a mile hence at the bottom of the hill.’

  ‘Thank you, Conan.’ Harness clinked as Clare waved the groom on. ‘Would you care to take the lead?’

  * * *

  The manor of St Méen sat in a hollow in the snowy landscape, a square, stone building peeping over an ice-encrusted wall. The moat was white with snow and the gate closed to all comers. A black wolfhound was chained to the wall by the gate. It seemed to be acting as guard, for it sprang up and started to bark.

  ‘I can’t see anyone,’ Clare said. ‘Apart from the dog, it looks deserted.’

  ‘There’s smoke over the roof.’

  Clare eyed the hound straining at its chain and her brow furrowed. ‘Do you think Countess Francesca will refuse to see us?’

  Somewhat to Clare’s surprise, Conan was able to open the gate and they rode through it unchallenged. There was just the black wolfhound, barking, barking...

  ‘Where is everyone?’ she asked, accepting Arthur’s steadying hand to help her dismount. His eyes, as she glanced his way, appea
red warm, but as he stepped smartly back with the most formal of bows, Clare decided she must have imagined the warmth. Was he disappointed at her refusal to testify? He must be. Of course, the Veronese might never be caught, but she had disappointed Arthur. It was not a pleasant feeling.

  ‘After you, my lady.’

  The Countess wasn’t in the hall, though a brisk fire was throwing out welcome heat. Through an open door at the far end, Clare glimpsed a shadowy stairwell.

  ‘Good day!’ she called. ‘Is anyone about?’

  No one answered. St Méen seemed abandoned, although a scattering of chestnut shells on the hearth hinted that someone had been here recently. Stripping off her gloves, Clare moved to the fire and tried again.

  ‘Holà! Countess Francesca?’ Outside the dog barked, on and on. No one came. ‘Someone must be here, there are horses in the stable.’ Rubbing her hands together, she exchanged glances with Arthur.

  He jerked his head towards the stairwell. ‘Shall we?’

  The spiralling stairs opened out at the end of a gallery lit only by lancets. Hand on his sword hilt, breath fogging in the cold air, Arthur flung open doors as they walked through the gloom. Storage chamber. Privy. Empty bedchamber. Linen closet...

  Solar. Countess Francesca was in the solar, sitting in a cushioned window embrasure with an elderly woman. They were hemming the edges of a large white cloth that was spread over their knees. The fire was low, little more than embers.

  The Countess lifted her face towards the door as they entered and Clare realised the sewing was but a pretence. Her adopted sister’s nose was red and there were sooty marks beneath her eyes. She looked as though she’d not slept since leaving the castle. The older woman had the air of a trusted retainer. This must be the maid. She, too, had cheeks that were blotched and puffy. They’d been crying.

  ‘Lady Clare.’ Countess Francesca’s throat worked. ‘You’ve come to gloat. I knew it wouldn’t be long. You want me to leave.’

  Quickly, Clare stepped forwards. ‘Far from it. I’ve come to ask if you would come home with me. My lady, Count Myrrdin misses you.’