Lord Gawain's Forbidden Mistress

by Carol Townend

  Lady Rowena looked puzzled. ‘Not so long, as it happens. My father signed the agreements with Count Gawain quite recently.’

  ‘I see. But you must have been prepared for marriage in general,’ Elise pressed. She knew that noblewomen were rigorously trained. The higher her status, the more a noblewoman would have to learn. Someone like Lady Rowena—the goddaughter of the King of France—must have been taught to manage several households; she would surely have learned how to organise the servants so that she and Gawain could move swiftly from one estate to the other; she would also have learned how to manage on her own when Gawain was away. And, most important, she would surely have learned everything there was to know about the healing arts.

  Lady Rowena’s blue eyes met hers. ‘I have been trained in all aspects of managing a large estate.’

  Elise kept a bright smile pinned to her face. At least she hoped it was bright. It felt rather forced. ‘For myself, I have always had a particular interest in herbs and healing.’

  Lady Rowena nodded politely. ‘How interesting.’

  Which told Elise precisely nothing. Conscious that Countess Isobel was taking in her every word, she leaned back with a sigh. She would have to leave it at that. If she said any more she might rouse suspicions, and the last thing she wanted to do was cause a rift in Gawain’s marriage before it had even begun. Gawain was not hers and despite what she felt about him, despite that she had borne him a child, he never would be.

  Elise shouldn’t be on this stand, this wasn’t her world and she didn’t belong.

  She touched Lady Isobel’s arm. ‘My lady, it was kind of you to invite me to sit with you, but I think I shall return to town.’

  The countess was all concern. ‘You are unwell?’

  ‘Not unwell, no.’ She touched her temple. ‘I have a slight headache. It must be the heat.’

  It had been a mistake to come. She loved Gawain. Love had crept up on her unawares. In truth, the thought—I love him—felt as familiar as an old friend. It seemed likely that she had loved him for a long time. Had she loved him last year? It was possible. He was a good man and deserving of any woman’s love. Elise wished she had understood sooner that what she felt for him was love. She wouldn’t have rushed off so quickly at the turn of the year. They might have had more time together.

  ‘If you are thirsty, I could call for refreshments,’ Lady Isobel said.

  ‘No, thank you, my lady.’ Elise lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. ‘In truth, I am a little nervous.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I am performing at the Harvest Banquet tonight and I need to prepare myself.’

  The countess’s face lit up. ‘You’re singing at the palace? Elise, that’s wonderful. I shall look forward to hearing you.’

  ‘Thank you. It will be good to know I have friends there.’

  Lady Isobel squeezed her hand. ‘You’ll be fine.’

  Elise’s stomach cramped. She wasn’t so sure. She would be singing in front of Gawain at his betrothal feast. She shook her head at herself. Such thoughts served no purpose. Rising, she curtsied to Countess Isobel. ‘Thank you for your kindness, my lady. I really think it best that I return to town.’ Elise never usually needed to rest before a performance, but she’d never felt quite so on edge.

  When Lady Isobel slanted a knowing glance towards Gawain, preparing to ride on to the field, and murmured, ‘Perhaps that is wise’, Elise knew she had made the right decision.

  Chapter Eight

  Elise and Baderon were expected at the palace soon after Vespers. Baderon rapped on the door some time before the Vespers bell was due to ring.

  ‘Good evening, Blanchefleur,’ he said. Grinning, he gave her a flourishing bow.

  Elise lifted her shawl from a hook and stepped into the street. It was far too hot for a cloak and though it would be late when she returned, it would still be warm.

  Baderon looked her over, eyes widening. Lord Gawain’s men-at-arms stared. Elise was wearing Blanchefleur’s best gown. A rare and costly gold silk, the fabric was the most expensive she had ever owned. It shimmered and shone when she moved. The merchant she’d bought it from in Poitiers had sworn it came from Byzantium. Elise wasn’t sure she believed him, but she knew a fine cloth when she saw one.

  ‘Well?’ She lifted her skirts and twirled around so the gown flared out about her. As Blanchefleur le Fay she was used to being stared at, she was used to appreciative glances. ‘Good enough for the palace?’

  Baderon sighed and reached out to touch the skirt. ‘Gold silk? Lord, what a gown. Did you make it especially for tonight?’

  She shook her head. ‘I bought the fabric in the south nigh on two years ago.’ Her lips curved. ‘Blanchefleur insisted that I buy it.’ Conscious that conversation was a distraction that would calm their nerves, Elise looped her arm companionably into Baderon’s and they started down the street. They were only a stone’s throw from the palace. ‘Blanchefleur is much more extravagant than I. The fabric was breathtakingly expensive, and as it turns out she’s hardly worn it. When Pearl came along, it soon got tight.’

  Baderon paused to give her another courtly bow. ‘Whatever you paid, it was worth it. Blanchefleur, you look like a princess.’

  Elise put her hand on her heart. ‘Why, thank you, kind sir.’

  They had been told to ask for the steward in the porter’s lodge next to the palace stable. A row of martins’ nests ran under the eaves. While they waited for the steward to arrive, they stood in the yard listening to the martins twitter as they darted back and forth above them. The bells for Vespers started to toll. Elise shuddered.

  Baderon touched her hand. ‘Elise? What’s the matter?’

  She shrugged. ‘An echo from the past. It is nothing.’ Elise loved music. She took pleasure in almost any harmonious sound. Except the ringing of bells. It hadn’t always been that way—as a child Elise had liked bells. However, her years at the convent had robbed her of that particular enjoyment. Today the cathedral bells served to remind her of her time at the convent, when every day had been a lost day—a day in prison. ‘I’m fine, Baderon. Truly.’

  ‘Good.’ Baderon turned to look at an imposing building. ‘That must be the great hall.’

  Even though sunset was not yet upon them, light glowed through the long, traceried lancets. Inside, many candles would be lit. A wide flight of steps led up to the double door flanked by guards. The blue, white and gold surcoats over their armour marked them out as Count Henry’s men. The doors were open and a burst of laughter floated through it. Elise heard the faint twang of a harp, followed by more laughter.

  ‘That sounds promising,’ Baderon said. ‘Our performance will go more smoothly if people are already enjoying themselves.’

  ‘Yes.’ Elise nodded absently and shook out her gown. This performance would be a triumph. Her future depended on it. She would put her heart into her singing and pray that Gawain didn’t distract her. She wouldn’t let him. He would be in the great hall, on the dais no doubt, sitting alongside his peers. Lady Rowena would be at his side and...

  She wouldn’t let him distract her. Blanchefleur le Fay would sing her heart out, and after the performance the bookings would pour in.

  ‘Baderon, are you happy to make note of any enquiries Blanchefleur may get as result of this evening?’ Normally, taking note of enquiries was André’s task. Since he was absent and Vivienne was caring for the babies, Elise hoped Baderon would take it on. Blanchefleur herself couldn’t stoop to discuss terms. It was part of the myth of Blanchefleur le Fay that such matters were below her.

  Baderon nodded easily. ‘Of course.’

  The steward—one of Count Henry’s knights—bustled up, and they were ushered through a small door and into a shadowy corridor that ran along one side of the hall. The sounds of harp and laughter grew louder.
The air was rich with scents—heady perfume and the more homely smells of fresh-baked bread and roasted meats; of rushes crushed underfoot. A stream of servants squeezed past and Elise glimpsed great platters of cheese and pastries; trays of cups and glasses. A dog snarled. Another yapped.

  ‘You may wait in this chamber,’ the steward said. ‘You will be called just before it is your turn to perform.’ He showed them into a tiny room that was simply furnished with a cross-framed chair and a side table. A jug, some cups and a candlestick sat on the side table. The steward waved at the wine jug. ‘Help yourself to refreshments. Should you need more, ask one of the servants. They will be happy to help.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I never normally eat until after the performance, but Baderon might be hungry.’

  ‘No, no, I’m fine, thank you.’

  The steward left and Baderon followed him out, doubtless intending to listen to the other performers. They might have acrobats, dancers... Elise sank on to the cross-framed chair and looked at her hands. They were a little unsteady. It wasn’t surprising. It had taken her years to get here. The nerves weren’t unexpected; she’d known it would be hard. What she hadn’t expected was that she would have to face an audience that comprised not only the Count of Champagne and half the nobles in France, but also the man she loved.

  The thought—that she loved Gawain—was no longer surprising. In truth, she had probably been half in love with him at the turn of the year. It had been so unexpected that she’d been slow to recognise what it was. She’d taken it for a strong liking. For admiration. For lust. I loved him all along and I never knew it.

  It had taken these past few days for her to see the truth. Gawain had been so kind. It must have been a great shock finding he was a father and yet he’d been so tender with Pearl. He’d been so thoughtful about André.

  Gawain had never been hers, not even last year. When she and Gawain had been lovers, he had only been a knight, closer to her in rank than he was as the Count of Meaux. None the less, they came from different worlds. She’d known that from the start. Was that why she had not understood that what she had felt for him was love? It seemed likely. There was also the fact that last winter her heart had been set on learning how Morwenna had died—that had eclipsed all else.

  No matter, Gawain was not for her. She loved him, but he must never know it. He was marrying according to the dictates of his King and his family. The marriage would bring him lands and prestige. This banquet was his betrothal feast and she was the entertainment.

  Gawain was courting Lady Rowena. She would have to turn a blind eye to that. She must sing—that was what she was being paid for. She simply had to sing.

  There was a sharp pain in her chest. Absently, she rubbed her breastbone. She could do this. She would sing like a nightingale and no one, especially not Gawain, would have the slightest idea that her heart was breaking. She would sing for Gawain. It would be the most difficult performance of her life. It would require all the self-discipline that she had acquired over the years, but she knew she could do it. She had to. She gripped her hands in her lap and stared blindly at the window slit. She felt like screaming rather than singing, but screaming was out of the question. Screaming might strain her voice and she had to sing well.

  For Gawain. For herself. And for Pearl. Her eyes prickled.

  The door groaned. Baderon was back. He looked across, brow troubled. ‘Lord, Elise, you’re not crying, are you? We are next up.’

  Elise rose, shook out her golden skirts and gave him a bright smile. ‘Certainly not, Blanchefleur le Fay never cries.’

  Baderon gave her a look. ‘Brace yourself, he’s out there.’

  Elise’s chin inched up. ‘Out there? Who?’

  ‘Lord Gawain.’

  Silk skirts rustling, Elise kept her smile on her face and crossed the chamber. ‘I imagined he would be.’ She paused, cheeks warming. ‘Have you heard if he was successful in the tournament?’

  ‘His team won.’

  ‘Does he look all right? He wasn’t hurt?’

  Baderon squeezed her arm in reassurance as she moved past him and into the corridor. ‘He looks well, which is more than I can say for another of your admirers.’

  Elise looked back. ‘Oh?’

  ‘Sir Olier, I think his name is.’ Baderon cocked an eyebrow at her. ‘Vivienne mentioned that he has been courting you.’

  Elise stiffened. ‘Sir Olier is not courting me. He’s amusing himself.’

  ‘Not according to Vivienne. She told that when you were in Poitiers last spring, Sir Olier asked for your hand in marriage.’

  ‘Sir Olier wasn’t serious. Baderon, knights don’t marry troubadour’s daughters.’

  ‘Not even Blanchefleur le Fay?’

  Elise gave a crooked smile. ‘Blanchefleur le Fay doesn’t exist.’

  ‘Doesn’t she? Vivienne is convinced Sir Olier’s proposal is genuine.’

  ‘Vivienne is wrong. Sir Olier doesn’t mean it. It amuses him. It’s a game.’

  ‘Elise, Vivienne is adamant Sir Olier means it. She told me about the flowers he sends...the gifts...’

  Elise frowned. ‘Vivienne talks too much. Sir Olier is playing to the gallery. And I am most grateful to him. Refusing him merely adds to Blanchefleur’s mystery. Baderon, he is not serious. I tell you, knights don’t marry people like me.’

  Baderon jerked his head at the door to the great hall. ‘Sir Olier’s wearing your favour tonight. I recognise the ribbon. I should warn you, he has a black eye and his face is one large bruise.’

  ‘Oh, the poor man. What happened?’

  Baderon’s lips twitched. ‘Lord Gawain unhorsed him.’

  She went very still. ‘Gawain unhorsed him?’

  ‘Went for him like a demon in the mêlée, apparently.’ Baderon rolled his shoulders. ‘I should have liked to have seen it. I’m told Lord Gawain was within an inch of getting himself disqualified for foul play.’

  Elise stared at him for a moment longer, straightened her shoulders and set off towards the great hall and the performance of her life.

  * * *

  Gawain sat in the place of honour at Count Henry’s high table, next to Lady Rowena.

  The table was spread with a white damask cloth and in the traditional manner Gawain and his betrothed were sharing a goblet and a trencher. Gawain stared bleakly at a platter of baked crane. He didn’t care for baked crane. Their goblet was silver gilt and encrusted with jewels—candle flames were reflected in the goblet’s gleaming surface.

  Overhead, the rafters were awash with knights’ colours. Gold fringes shimmered in the firelight; silver embroidery glistened. Gawain’s griffin blazed down from the hanging behind the dais. Silver and blue pennons—the colours of Sainte-Colombe—hung beside it.

  The noise was astonishing. The clattering of metal platters, the bursts of laughter, the bellowing across the tables, the twang of the harp...

  ‘Would you care to choose a different wine, my lady?’ Gawain asked, gesturing for a page. He stifled a sigh. Lady Rowena seemed determined to follow the protocols and he was resigned to a long evening of stiffness and formality.

  ‘No, thank you, my lord. I would prefer you to choose it.’

  The page came up. ‘Mon seigneur?’

  ‘We’ll have some more burgundy, if you please.’ At least Count Henry knew a good wine.

  ‘Of course, mon seigneur.’

  When the boy had filled the goblet, Gawain gestured for Lady Rowena to try the wine. She shook her head. ‘No, thank you, my lord.’

  Gawain picked up the goblet. More of an ornament than a cup, it was so lavishly designed with its jewel-studded stem that it was difficult to handle. Gawain took a sip and tried not to grimace. Not only was the thing impossible to hold, but he preferred drinking from glass or clay. Silver gilt did
odd things to the flavour of wine.

  Lady Rowena looked shyly at him. ‘Lord Gawain, if it’s not to your taste, I am sure the boy will fetch another wine.’

  Gawain shook his head. ‘No point, there’s nothing wrong with the wine.’

  Their eyes met in sudden understanding. Lady Rowena’s mouth curved and she leaned slightly towards him. She was rolling the edge of the white damask cloth between her fingers. She’d been doing it all evening. They’d been sitting side by side for hours—on show before every lord and lady in the land, and she was still afraid of him. ‘It’s the cup, isn’t it?’ she murmured. ‘Everything tastes wrong.’

  Nodding, Gawain looked thoughtfully at her. A trembling hand reached out, lightly touched his sleeve and quickly withdrew. Blink and you’d have missed it.

  ‘Before you say anything else, my lord, I think you should know that the cup is a betrothal gift from my godfather.’

  Gawain’s eyebrows went up. ‘It’s a gift from the King?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ Her lips twitched. ‘One mustn’t be rude about the King’s gift.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ Gawain studied her. Lady Rowena might be too young for his taste, but she was doing her best to obey the wishes of her King and her father. He frowned and set the cup down.

  ‘My lady.’ He held out his hand. ‘We have been sitting so long I feel I am turning to stone. I am sure no one would mind if we stretched our legs. The night is warm, and there’s a small courtyard off the canal. Would you care to see it?’

  Lowering her gaze, Lady Rowena murmured assent and placed her hand in his. ‘Canal, my lord?’

  ‘Troyes is full of them. Traders and merchants use them to shift goods about town.’

  Gawain turned his back on the baked crane, conscious that all eyes were on them. The entertainers were using one corridor, so he took the other one. Briefly, he glanced back over his shoulder. Elise had mentioned she’d be singing tonight. Was she waiting out there? She had vanished early on in the tournament—not that he’d been looking her way—and he’d wondered why. He hoped she’d not heard anything untoward about the wretched André.