Unveiling Lady Clare

by Carol Townend

  Clare gripped the parapet, choked with an emotion she had no business feeling, let alone naming. An emotion that was alien to her.

  No, that was wrong, she couldn’t delude herself. The feeling blocking her throat wasn’t entirely alien. She had felt it in some small measure for Geoffrey, and for Nicola and Nell. She was beginning to feel it for her father. Love. It seemed that what she felt for Sir Arthur Ferrer was similar. Could this be love? Could it?

  Blinded by tears, she watched him ride through the gatehouse and on to the road. The icicles hanging from the battlements were melting—messy dark splotches were eating into the snow heaped against the walls.

  Is this love? She wanted to call him back and feel those strong arms close about her. She wanted—

  Behind her, the tower door grated and Count Myrrdin stepped through. The wind was whisking through his hair and beard.

  ‘He’s gone, then?’

  Heart too full to speak, Clare gripped the battlements and managed a nod.

  ‘Humph. Thought that boy would stay.’ Mismatched eyes peered closely at her.

  Her father looked distressed. Clare wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of someone else’s concern and she didn’t want him upset. She forced words to her lips. ‘Sir Arthur is sworn to Count Henry of Champagne.’

  Her father made a dismissive gesture. ‘The man’s not a serf. Thought you’d find a reason to keep him.’

  Blinking away her tears, she stared at the road that led up through the forest and out of Brittany. Everywhere snow was turning to slush. The three horses—they were taking Swift back to Count Henry—were leaving muddy tracks in their wake. When the rain came, Arthur and Ivo would be riding through a sea of mud.

  Her father shifted and gave an odd laugh. ‘You think I didn’t notice, but I know.’

  Despite the wind, Clare’s cheeks burned. ‘Know what?’

  ‘You dote on that man.’

  ‘Papa!’ Her throat closed. ‘I do not.’

  Her father harrumphed, and the lines round his eyes crinkled. ‘Don’t lie to me, my girl. I am not the most talkative of men, but I observe many things and you are sweet on that man.’ He patted her hand. ‘He is certainly sweet on you.’

  Her heart jumped in her breast. ‘He is?’

  The white head dipped. ‘I was half-expecting him to ask permission to court you.’

  Her father was studying her with such intensity that Clare began to think that she had been mistaken in concluding that age had weakened his mind. ‘I do like him, Papa,’ she surprised herself by admitting. ‘But I have no wish to marry.’

  Her father grunted, his gaze going out over the battlements. The wind toyed with his hair. It looked like a messy white cloud. Arthur and Ivo were trotting into the trees. One moment Clare could see the unicorn on its green shield and the next all she could see was tree trunks and a criss-cross of bare branches. A rook cawed. In the unknown depths of the forest, she heard the drumming of a woodpecker.

  He has gone.

  ‘You need to marry, Clare. Had you asked me, I would have accepted him, but I have to say I am relieved you did not.’

  ‘You are relieved? Why?’

  ‘You will need a good steward when I am gone. And whilst I grant you that Arthur Ferrer makes a fine knight, I hear his stewardship of Ravenshold was less than exemplary.’

  She stopped breathing. ‘Papa?’

  ‘Ravenshold was in a state of ruin at the end of his tenure. The castle was derelict.’

  Clare stared at the gap in the trees, at the muddy tracks in the snow, at the snow-frosted branches. ‘Ravenshold was derelict?’ That cannot be true. Arthur is diligent. Careful and thorough in all things. Precise. ‘Papa, who told you this?’

  ‘It’s common knowledge, apparently. And whilst I would deny you nothing, I would wish for a careful steward for Fontaine. The land is everything, my dear—it’s all about the land.’ He smiled, and patted her hand. ‘Don’t fret, I shall find a good steward. Someone you will like. And you needn’t fear I shall rush you into it. You won’t have to marry until you are ready.’

  Clare’s stomach felt hollow. She didn’t want her kind, eccentric father to find her a husband. And he was wrong about Arthur. Very wrong. Arthur? A bad steward? Impossible.

  She held his gaze. ‘You gave no sign of having misgivings about Sir Arthur, Papa. Why didn’t you mention this earlier?’

  Count Myrrdin’s eyes lost their sharp intensity. ‘I...I...’ His expression clouded, his face was the image of confusion. ‘I...I forgot.’

  ‘You forgot?’

  ‘I was thinking about something Father Alar has told me.’

  ‘Papa?’

  His fingers tightened on hers. ‘When you arrived at Fontaine and there was no doubt as to your lineage, I asked Father Alar to make enquiries in the village. I wanted to know what happened after your birth.’

  The wind tugged at her veil. It was trying to unwind it from her neck. ‘You’ve learned something?’

  ‘A little. It touches on a confession Father Alar heard years ago. As you will know, confessions are entirely private, but, given the circumstances and the length of time that has elapsed since the confession, Father Alar felt he could reveal what was said. A villager confessed that her sister had stolen a baby girl. The woman was ill, grieving after the death of her child.’

  ‘She stole me?’

  ‘And she fled Fontaine. The sister never saw her again, so the trail soon goes cold. We shall have to imagine that the woman went to Apulia and took you with her.’

  A grey cloud was drifting over the castle. Clare watched it pass, thinking quickly. I was stolen by a grieving woman who then ran away from Fontaine. How did I fall into the hands of the slavers? How?

  ‘The woman was unbalanced, Papa?’

  ‘It seems so. I expect the nurse panicked when you were taken—she must have put Francesca in your place.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Father Alar swears he had no confessions from the nurse, so that is pure speculation.’

  ‘Does he know where Francesca came from?’

  ‘Sadly, no.’

  Clare would have liked to have told Arthur what the priest had revealed. It didn’t explain exactly how she’d fallen into the hands of the slavers, none the less, Arthur was the only person who knew she had been enslaved and she would have liked to have discussed it with him.

  Had the woman died on the road? If she had been ill, she might have been reduced to beggary. The woman might have been forced to sell me to the slavers in exchange for food. It could have happened at any point between here and Apulia.

  With an abstracted nod and a vague smile, Count Myrrdin released Clare’s hand and gazed out over his domain. His nose was red and the skin about his eyes was lined and wrinkled. His hands were heavily veined and mottled with cold. Clare caught her breath. Her father was an old man—he should be wearing his cloak.

  She linked arms with him. ‘Papa, where’s your cloak?’

  ‘One of the dogs ate it?’

  ‘Papa?’ Goosebumps ran over her skin. It looked as though her father’s period of lucidity was ended. She’d learn no more about her infancy today.

  ‘I have no idea, my dear. None whatsoever.’

  ‘Come along, Papa, we need to go into the warmth.’

  * * *

  As the thaw set in, the highway turned to mud. It splattered up the horses’ legs, and covered their flanks. Arthur’s grey stallion was no more—Steel had been transformed into a dappled creature he no longer recognised. Ivo’s cloak was spotted with brown and Arthur’s was no better. Mud coated their boots.

  And the rain! It hammered into their faces with such determination Arthur could almost believe a malevolent spirit was at work. From top to toe, both he and Ivo were sodden. His sword was doubtles
s rusting in its sheath. He glanced at his shield, half-expecting to find his device had been washed away. But, no, the unicorn on the shield was unchanged, a flare of white in a world of mud and rain.

  Arthur grimaced at Ivo. Despite the rain, he’d driven them hard. And fast. He’d hoped that focusing on the journey would stop him thinking about Clare.

  It hadn’t worked. He missed her with his every breath. Which was odd, since towards the end of his time at Fontaine, he hadn’t spent much time with her. But he’d known she was nearby. He’d known what she was doing—sometimes she would be talking to her father in the hall. At others, she’d be checking on supplies for the kitchen or sitting in the solar with Francesca, learning a new stitch. Once, Arthur had heard her asking the priest if he would care to teach her to read and write. And at those times, even though Arthur hadn’t been with her, he’d liked knowing where she was. But now...

  He tried to keep his mind occupied. He told himself to think about the slavers and how he might find them. He told himself to think about what he would say when he spoke to Count Henry.

  Nothing worked. He felt as though he’d lost part of himself. It was an unfamiliar feeling and he didn’t like it. So he’d driven himself—and poor Ivo—harder than usual.

  Days had passed and they had made good time.

  ‘You’ve done well, Ivo. Despite the conditions, we’ve covered some ground today.’

  ‘When shall we reach Troyes, sir?’

  ‘We’ve entered Champagne. With luck we’ll be back at the barracks tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s good to hear.’

  ‘Are you warm enough, lad? We can’t have you getting ill again.’

  ‘I’m fine, sir.’

  The gloom was thickening. Behind the clouds, the sun was sinking. Ahead, a handful of lights glimmered.

  ‘Dieu merci,’ Arthur muttered. ‘Thank God.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Village ahead. We’ll seek shelter at an inn and dry out.’

  * * *

  They trotted briskly into the inn yard. A girl was running hither and yon, chasing after a bedraggled chicken, which must have escaped the coop. A couple of horsemen with a pony and cart were on the point of leaving. They looked like merchants. Poor devils, they must be planning to ride through the night. The lead man was swathed in a voluminous cloak. His torch sputtered and hissed in the rain. The torch wouldn’t last long and Arthur’s heart went out to them even as something about them caught his attention. Something about them jarred.

  Uneasy for no reason that he could put his finger on, he watched them ride out. The rider with the torch went first, the man leading the pony and cart followed. Arthur found himself studying the cart. It looked like a thousand other merchants’ carts and to be riding in daylight in this season was bad enough. But night riding? If they were merchants, wouldn’t their goods be soaked by journey’s end?

  Arthur addressed the second rider as the cart trundled by. ‘Good evening. Filthy night for a journey. I hope you’ve not far to go.’

  The man grunted. ‘Not far.’ He wouldn’t meet Arthur’s eyes.

  The cart’s wheels churned through the mud. The cart wasn’t full. There were two or three misshapen bundles in the back and several coils of rope that looked like snakes. The bundles had, in fact, been heavily wrapped, so with luck the contents would survive the downpour. They must be valuable to make it worth setting out on such a night. Likely they were delivering a special order for a local lord.

  Shaking his head at the hoops ordinary folk must jump through to earn a crust, Arthur turned back to the yard. Yellow light streamed through the stable door—a couple of grooms were in there, waiting out the wet. ‘There’s a welcome sight,’ he said, smiling at Ivo.

  ‘Indeed, sir.’

  Head down against the rain, Arthur was guiding Steel towards the light when a choked squeak reached him. It came from behind and was immediately followed by a dull thump and another of those squeaks. He swung round, his gaze instinctively going to the cart rattling into the night.

  A dumpy shadow shifted in the back. ‘My knight! My knight!’

  Arthur’s blood chilled. That was a child’s voice—a voice so high and thin, no amount of rain would muffle it.

  ‘My knight! Help! Help!’

  Wheeling round, Arthur looked at the grooms. ‘Fetch help, there’s trouble.’

  The grooms goggled. ‘Trouble, sir?’

  ‘Move!’

  One groom dashed for the inn and the other snatched up a pitchfork. ‘I’m with you, sir.’

  ‘Good man.’ Arthur spurred after the cart, sword in hand. ‘Ivo, à moi!’ His hood fell back, and the skies emptied.

  Chaos. Mud flew every which way. The shadow in the back of the cart resolved into the shape of a little girl.

  ‘My knight! Sir Arthur!’

  The child was screaming, as though for her life. There was no doubt that she knew him, but her hair was so matted and tangled, and her face so smeared with dirt it took a moment to place her.

  ‘My knight! Sir Arthur!’

  ‘Nell?’

  There was no time for more than a glance. Mon Dieu, a gag hung loose about the child’s neck, but it was Nell and no mistake. Her hands were bound.

  The torchbearer made a snarling sound and lobbed the torch at Arthur—sparks flew as it flamed towards him. Steel whinnied and danced sideways. Then came sounds that needed no interpretation...the thunder of hoofbeats as Ivo drew alongside him; the hiss of Ivo drawing his sword; the squelching footsteps of the groom ploughing through the mud.

  The light from the inn strengthened. There were shouts and commotion as the other groom raised the alarm. Out of the corner of his eye, the thin silver line that was Ivo’s sword wavered and dipped.

  ‘Steady, lad,’ Arthur said. ‘Remember the drill.’ Only one of the two men presented a threat—the man who had flung that torch. The other was too slow. His face was round as a full moon, his mouth hanging agape. ‘Lead rider’s mine. You watch the other.’

  He dug in his spurs and Steel surged forwards.

  His man was riding straight at him. He was sloppy, all over the place. He had such poor control it was a wonder he kept his seat. His spurs were gouging into his horse’s sides with more energy than sense and, to cap matters off, he was pulling on his reins as though he wanted to bring his mount to a standstill.

  ‘Conflicting signals,’ Arthur muttered. He felt sorry for the horse. Lord, the man’s cloak was flapping like a loose sail in a storm and his whole body shifted as he waved his sword.

  They met in a clash and Arthur’s opponent rushed on, carried by momentum. Steel spun round. They engaged briefly in a second pass and again at a third. The rain sluiced down. It was no contest, but by some miracle his man stayed seated, slashing and chopping with such little finesse, Arthur wouldn’t have been surprised to see him maim his own horse. Arthur was content to bide his time. His chance would come and soon. The man had been ill-trained, if at all.

  The opening came without warning. An inept lunge had his foe lose a stirrup. Another had him lurching to the side. He lost grip of his sword—a deadly silver stripe spiralled into the dark. The man thumped into the mud. His horse bolted.

  Arthur flung himself off Steel and rested the point of his sword on the man’s throat. ‘Yield?’

  ‘Aye, hell burn you, I yield.’

  The man’s accent was unfamiliar, he was not a Champenois. Arthur’s skin prickled. Could this be Lorenzo da Verona? Clare’s voice resonated in his mind...there are slavers in Troyes. Slavers. He is known as the Veronese...

  Could this be the man who had precipitated Clare’s flight from Troyes?

  The groom with the pitchfork ran up, an excited crowd at his heels. Ivo was back by the cart, surrounded by more folk from the inn. His squire had
done well—the other fellow was also at sword-point. And Nell? Nell was shivering on the back of the cart and alongside her three—no, four bedraggled waifs clung to the cart’s handrail. Mon Dieu, if this was slavery, these men had much to answer for. Count Henry would tear his hair out when he heard. Slavery in Champagne.

  ‘Sir Arthur!’ the children shouted and drummed their feet. ‘Sir Arthur!’

  Arthur looked at the groom, and jerked his head at the man in the mud. ‘Tie him up. Let’s get everyone into the dry.’

  ‘I have him, sir,’ the groom said.

  * * *

  Four children shivered by the inn fire, rubbing at wrists and ankles reddened by ropes. Arthur sat on a bench with Nell on his lap and tried to comfort her as, one by one, the innkeeper’s wife hustled the children behind a curtain screen to whisk off their damp, dirty clothes. Maidservants ran in and out with a succession of washbowls.

  Other customers were murmuring quietly to one another, shooting occasional glances towards the fire and the screens. The children’s plight had shocked everyone. At the far end of the inn, the two men were bound hand and foot and roped to a post. To be safe, Arthur had given Ivo and the grooms the task of guarding them.

  ‘I’ve plenty of tunics my boys have outgrown,’ the innkeeper’s wife said, as she drew the smallest boy behind the screen. ‘They’re slightly moth-eaten in places, but they’re clean and dry.’

  ‘This is very good of you,’ Arthur said.

  The woman vanished behind the screen and, above the crackling of the fire, Arthur could hear her sympathetic clucking. ‘You poor lamb, that’s a big bruise. My, you’re a brave one. Here, this salve will make it better. Do you want to put it on, or shall I?’

  Gently, Arthur chafed Nell’s wrists. He couldn’t get at her fingers because she was clinging to him like a limpet to a rock, but she was permitting him to touch her wrists. Her face was buried in his tunic. Slavers. Would the children remember this in later years? Dear God, he hoped not, but they were certainly old enough.