‘Oh?’ Realisation crashed in on her. ‘You were in there! Why didn’t you make yourself known?’
Gawain flushed. Guilt? Shame? Her foot tapped. She laughed and even to her own ears it sounded bitter. ‘What were you doing in the Black Boar, Gawain? Availing yourself of the local delights?’
‘You are insolent.’ Frown deepening, he threaded her arm firmly through his. She tried to tug free, but there was no denying him and she found herself being walked through the Paris Gate. ‘Elise, I don’t want to quarrel.’
‘I am a free woman. You don’t own me.’ She was trying not to look at him and shot him a quick sideways glance. His expression was rueful.
‘I know. I have no right to order your behaviour.’ He caught her chin and made her look at him. ‘Just as you have no right to question my motives for being in the Black Boar.’
‘Very well.’ She forced a smile and it really did feel forced. They had no claims on each other. Why then did the thought of Gawain going to the Black Boar to find a girl make her stomach churn? She felt positively ill.
Searching for a distraction, she glanced over her shoulder. ‘You dismissed the men.’
He grunted. He was looking at Pearl again, expression unreadable. ‘They are no longer necessary since I shall be accompanying you back to the house. You are happy to walk this way?’
‘I suppose so. Pearl was restive at the house and I thought a walk might do her good.’
‘You will permit me to accompany you. We shall take a turn around the city walls.’ Gawain’s lips curved and although she wasn’t looking at him—she wasn’t—Elise’s heart gave a little jump. When he smiled at her like that he was well-nigh irresistible. A pang shot through her. What had he been doing in the Black Boar?
They crossed the moat—it was a dry moat, like a deep ditch—and strolled north on to the narrow road that encircled Troyes. On their right hand, the city walls rose up, solid and impregnable. A helmet gleamed on the battlements of one of the towers. A brace of horsemen trotted past, dust rising in their wake. Elise held her palm gently under Pearl’s head and tried not to look at Gawain. She was trying not to do a lot of things and it wasn’t easy. She was trying not to enjoy the feel of that strong arm beneath her other hand. And she was ignoring the unwelcome pang in her breast as she remembered the joy that had flooded through her when they had become lovers. What she had felt hadn’t been love. She had no real belief in love. Just as she had no idea what had happened between them. We were lovers. The desire between us was strong. It wouldn’t happen again. And there it was again—another pang of...something. Whatever it was, she wished she wasn’t feeling it. It was painful.
It was ironic when you thought about it. Blanchefleur le Fay spent her days and her nights singing about love. Yearning and unrequited love were woven through the best of the songs—like gold and silver threads in a tapestry they brought them to life. But such passion had always eluded her. Except with Gawain. Gawain aside, Elise remained in control. What had happened with Gawain was passing strange. She was Blanchefleur and to her love was a mystery, except to say that everyone seemed to yearn for it. She had always hoped that one day she would understand it, but she was no longer so confident. Perhaps it didn’t matter. Her singing didn’t seem to have suffered. Love was unattainable. Everyone had unattainable dreams. That, she did understand. And that was what she sang about, the unattainable.
Gawain was getting married.
Gawain cleared his throat and gestured back to the city. ‘My manor—Le Manoir des Rosières—lies past the wooded area to the east of the town.’
Elise nodded, half-listening as Gawain described his father’s manor. She didn’t know why he was bothering. It wasn’t as though she was ever likely to see it. Lady Rowena, on the other hand...
Her jaw clenched.
Gawain was listing the improvements he’d made to the curtain wall when a rank smell caught in her nose. Something was rotting. Something dead.
Gawain broke off, nose wrinkling. ‘What the devil?’
The source of the smell wasn’t hard to find. Someone had tipped what looked like their entire household’s refuse into the moat. A cloud of flies hung over it. Elise could see cabbage stalks; a broken clay pot; the mouldy heel of a loaf. And the source of that dreadful smell? Her stomach churned. There was a furry leg. A tail.
‘Ugh!’ Holding her nose, she turned away.
‘Dead cat,’ Gawain murmured, walking her swiftly past. ‘I’ll inform Raphael.’
‘The Guardians have to be told about a dead cat?’
His lips twitched. Not that she was looking. ‘It’s not the cat so much, but the rubbish. If the moat fills up because it’s choked with rubbish, it’s no longer a defence. The Guardians are charged with keeping it clear. If Raphael discovers who is responsible, he will have them fined. It’s not the first time the moat has been used as a midden and I dare say it won’t be the last.’
Elise glanced at the ditch. This section, thankfully, was clear. ‘I hadn’t thought a knight would find himself clearing out the moat.’
‘Raphael won’t do it personally, but his men will.’
She pulled a face. ‘I don’t envy them. Does this happen a lot?’
‘Aye. Sometimes it’s worse. Cats aren’t all that’s dumped in the moat. Corpses have been found.’
‘People?’ Eyes wide, she stopped walking and scanned the length of the moat. First north, then south. She didn’t know why it was, but she thought of André and shuddered. ‘People?’ An icy trickle ran down her spine and she gripped Gawain’s sleeve. ‘Gawain, do you have time to do an entire circuit of the town?’
Sombre dark eyes flickered towards the moat before returning to her. ‘You’re thinking about André.’
Pearl shifted. She tried to kick away her wrappings and let out a whimper that swiftly became a wail. Gawain touched Pearl’s cheek and as he did so, he brushed Elise’s fingers. The contact had been accidental. None the less, Elise’s fingers tingled.
‘Pearl is all right?’ he asked.
‘She’s fine. She’s hot, that’s all. It won’t be long before she’s hungry. We’ll have to hurry.’ Eyes flickering back to the ditch, Elise took his hand. ‘Gaw—my lord, you are right. I was thinking about André. I can’t help thinking that he must have met with an accident after the loss of the sword. He might be in the moat even now.’
‘You think he’s been killed?’
‘It’s possible.’ Her voice broke. ‘He’s never normally away for long.’
‘So you really haven’t heard from him?’
‘Not a word. Gawain, if André was all right he would have sent a message. He’s not cruel and he knows Vivienne will be worrying. Yet all we have is silence.’
Gawain looked thoughtfully at her. When Pearl let out another fretful wail, he turned them to face the way they had come. ‘We can’t walk round the entire city. It would take far too long. I’ll get my sergeant to do it. Immediately after Pearl is back with Vivienne.’
* * *
Someone was pounding on the door. Elise stumbled out of bed and hurried downstairs. Even before she slid back the bolt, she knew Sergeant Gaston would be standing outside. Each morning since that walk with Gawain he’d come to report on the state of the moat.
‘Good morning, ma demoiselle.’ Sergeant Gaston inclined his head at her. He was invariably courteous.
‘Sergeant?’
‘Went on patrol again at dawn.’ He lowered his voice. A perceptive man, Sergeant Gaston knew to keep his voice low so Vivienne wouldn’t hear him. ‘Thought you’d like to know the ditch at least is clear this morning.’
Elise let her breath out. ‘Thank God! And thank you, Sergeant, I appreciate you checking again.’ Gawain’s sergeant was turning out to be a real boon. When Gawain had mentioned that he would get him to patrol
the moat, she hadn’t imagined that he would be doing it every morning. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘Ma demoiselle, you are very welcome.’
Elise closed the door and slid the shutters open. Two of Gawain’s men-at-arms were standing directly outside. As she went to kneel by the fire to stir the embers into life—they needed warm water—she could hear them talking. Her stomach rumbled. She was looking forward to breaking her fast.
‘She got here last night,’ one of the men said. ‘Hervé saw her entourage arrive at the palace.’
The other guard grunted. ‘Is she as pretty as they say?’
Elise stiffened. Carefully, she hooked the kettle over the fire. Were they talking about Lady Rowena?
‘Pretty? Mon Dieu, to hear Hervé talk you’d think she was an angel. She has hair like spun gold, eyes like sapphires and a waist a man could span with his hands. She’s a bit on the skinny side apparently, though with such beauty that hardly signifies.’
‘Lord Gawain’s a lucky devil,’ the second man said, pausing. ‘How did he react when he saw her?’
‘Lord Gawain wasn’t at the palace. They’ll meet at the tournament.’
Elise frowned into the fire, slowly feeding in more wood. She was no longer listening. She’d heard enough. The tournament was today. Gawain and Lady Rowena would meet today. This wasn’t news that should affect her, but it did. A moment ago she’d been happy. Happy to learn that the moat was clear. And now? She felt out of sorts. She ought to hurry. She and Baderon had arranged a final rehearsal and he would be arriving very shortly. The banquet was being held tonight, after the tournament at the Field of the Birds and, since André still hadn’t appeared, Baderon had agreed to play for her. Their performance must be perfect.
Elise was dreading the banquet now. Yes, that must be why she felt a trifle out of sorts. She was nervous. She’d waited so long for her chance to sing at Count Henry’s palace. It wasn’t a new feeling. Blanchefleur was often nervous. She didn’t know a professional performer who wasn’t. It was just that she did not usually feel quite so bad. She wrapped her arms about her stomach and wondered how she could have been thinking about breakfast when she felt so sick.
Gawain was meeting Lady Rowena that morning. At the tournament. She felt choked, utterly choked. She, who prided herself on her sangfroid.
There was another knock on the door. Baderon?
She went across and lifted the latch and it was indeed Baderon. She forced a smile as he came in. ‘You’re early.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Baderon’s mouth was tight. ‘Couldn’t sleep. I’ll feel better when we’ve done the run-through.’
Elise grimaced. ‘I understand. Come in, please.’ Firmly, she told herself that she was nervous because of tonight’s performance. Of course, her disquiet could in no way be connected to Gawain’s meeting with his betrothed.
Baderon settled on a stool and set about tuning his lute. Cooings and stirrings from upstairs told Elise that the babies were waking. Vivienne would be down shortly. Baderon loosed an experimental ripple of sound and stilled it. He smiled up at her. ‘It also occurred to me that you might be glad if we finished early.’
‘Oh?’
He gave her a strange look. ‘The tournament at the Field of the Birds—don’t you want to see it?’
Elise bent to throw another log on to the fire and fiddled with the kettle. ‘I won’t be going.’
‘You have friends who will be there. Countess Isobel.’ Baderon’s gaze bored into her shoulder blades. ‘Count Gaw—’
‘Leave it, Baderon. I’m not going to the tournament.’
Chapter Seven
A village of pavilions—or rather two villages—had mushroomed overnight in the Field of the Birds. The sun-bleached grass was bright with them—blue, green, yellow and black; plain and striped...
The pavilions and lance stands belonging to knights supporting Count Lucien d’Aveyron were sited at one end of the lists. The crimson pavilion of the Count of Meaux sat among these, its pennon slack in the summer heat, the golden griffin lost in the silken folds.
At the other end sat the pavilions belonging to guests of Count Henry of Champagne—the knights of his household; the Guardian Knights; his guests. A couple of the more wealthy merchants were also fielding knights and they too had joined Count Henry’s team.
The townsfolk viewed the Harvest Tourney as a battle between town and country, but Count Lucien d’Aveyron had made it clear that this tournament was not for the settling of grudges. Yes, the fighting would be hard and fierce, but there were to be no deaths. This was not a war; this was an exercise. It was also an entertainment. Ladies were present.
It was almost time for the review. By the crimson pavilion, Gawain was mounted. Helmet under his arm, he scowled down at his squire.
‘You’ve a message from Lady Isobel? Lady Rowena has arrived safely?’
‘Yes, my lord. Lady Rowena has taken a place on the ladies’ stand next to Countess Isobel. Lady Isobel asked me to inform you that Lady Rowena would be pleased if you would accept her favour.’
Gawain’s stomach sank and he narrowed his eyes on the ladies’ stand. Lord, the woman expected him to pick her out in public when he’d never set eyes on her? What was this, some kind of a test? How was he to know which one she was? ‘Lady Rowena expects me to greet her in public when I’ve not yet met her?’
The ladies’ stand was little more than a raised wooden platform, but it was shaded by a blue awning, courtesy of Count Lucien. The shade would be most welcome in this heat. A handful of children were weaving in and out behind the barrier, amid bursts of laughter. Playing tag, he thought. Gawain could see Lucien’s wife, Countess Isobel, sitting amid a bevy of ladies and maids. Which one was Lady Rowena? He could see a plump dark beauty, and a slender blonde. It must be the blonde. Except, hell burn it, there were at least three other blondes on that stand, and he had no clue which one was his fiancée. He would have to follow Isobel’s lead.
Swearing under his breath, Gawain jammed on his helmet. This was nothing less than an ordeal. Four blondes. Lord. He started to mutter. ‘It’s all very well for the ladies. They know us by our colours.’ The Beast’s crimson caparison and the griffin on his shield put his identity in no doubt.
‘Not to mention the herald’s introduction,’ Aubin said, hiding a grin.
Devil take the boy, he was enjoying Gawain’s discomfiture. ‘Be warned, Aubin, plenty of other lads are keen to step into your shoes.’
Aubin’s grin widened. Gawain’s threat was empty and he knew it. He knew Gawain liked him. A little impudence aside, he was the most devoted and diligent of squires.
‘Yes, my lord. Good luck.’
As Gawain heeled The Beast into a walk and took his place for the review, he wondered if Aubin was wishing him luck in his meeting with Lady Rowena or in the joust.
* * *
Elise pushed through the crowd at the side of the ladies’ stand. She was trying to work her way round to the front. The sun was almost directly overhead and her heavy plaits and veil were making her hot. Irritably, Elise pulled her hair away from the back of her neck. She had a few minutes before the review began.
She wasn’t here to see Gawain, she really wasn’t. She was here because shortly after Baderon had left La Rue du Cloître it had dawned on her that she had no choice but to attend the Harvest Tourney. She wanted to see Lady Rowena de Sainte-Colombe before her performance at the palace. She needed to see her before the performance. And not because she was jealous of the woman—although she had the lowering feeling that she might indeed be jealous. No, she needed to see Lady Rowena in case first sight of her made her miss a note. Imagine if she lost the thread mid-song! She couldn’t have that. Not when she was—at last—to sing at the Champagne court.
Her performance before Count Henry must be dazzlin
g. And it would be. Provided she wasn’t distracted by watching out for the woman who was to marry Gawain. Elise swallowed down a bitter taste. Jealousy. Was that what she was feeling? It felt pretty ugly.
Lady Rowena had better appreciate him. She had better be a good woman. Gawain deserved the best.
Elise paused in front of the ladies’ stand, hand on the wooden railing. She was well aware that she didn’t belong anywhere near the ladies sitting on these thickly cushioned benches. She looked at the bright silken gowns, at the delicate filmy ladies’ veils, at the glitter of gold and silver circlets. She came from a very different world. True, she had put on one of Blanchefleur’s gowns to come here, the silvery-grey damask with cherry-coloured ribbons. She knew it looked good. Blanchefleur had her own brand of glitter and shine, but she was still just playing a part. These ladies were the real thing.
Elise had a plan. She would pretend to be just passing by and hope that Lady Isobel would see her and acknowledge her. That ought to give her time to work out which noblewoman was Lady Rowena. Then there would be no shocks tonight, and her performance at the palace would be seamless.
A rosy-cheeked boy poked his head under the railing and grinned at her. ‘Hôlà.’
Elise smiled back. ‘Hôlà.’ Lord, she was melting. She dragged one of her plaits forward and fiddled with a cherry-coloured ribbon. Lady Isobel was sat in the centre of the stand. Affecting to simply be walking past, Elise moved slowly on, eyes scanning the ladies. She’d heard that Lady Rowena de Sainte-Colombe was blonde but—
‘Elise? Elise Chantier?’ Lady Isobel was off the bench and at the barrier in the blink of an eye. Warm hands reached for her. ‘Elise! How lovely to see you.’ She gestured at the long, cushioned bench. ‘You must join us at once!’
Elise’s heart lurched. ‘Oh, no, my lady, I couldn’t.’ Sit on the same stand as Lady Rowena? She really couldn’t.
‘Nonsense!’ The countess tugged on her arm, she wouldn’t take no for an answer. ‘I have thought about you often. Come and tell me how you have been faring. You look well. Are you singing still?’
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