Lord Gawain's Forbidden Mistress

by Carol Townend

  * * *

  The men were none too pleased to be roused from their sleep, but they’d been well trained. Gawain’s troop was trotting through the wooden gateway and into the lower town as the first rays of sunlight began creeping across the ground.

  Gawain didn’t know Provins as well as he knew Troyes, so he’d commandeered the Count of Sainte-Colombe’s captain to act as his guide. The man had been born in the town and claimed to know the location of every last entrance to the caves that Baderon had spoken of. The cellars would be locked, of course, but the captain swore he knew where to find the key holders.

  ‘Where do we start?’ Gawain asked as they trotted smartly along sun-baked streets. It took effort to keep his voice calm. He felt as though his world had disintegrated. Elise was in danger and he only had himself to blame. He’d promised Raphael he would make enquiries about André in Provins, only he’d been so taken up with his wretched betrothal that he had yet to do so. ‘Regret is pointless,’ he muttered.

  ‘My lord?’

  Sainte-Colombe’s captain was looking anxiously at him. Gawain clenched his jaw. He didn’t feel calm, but he must present a calm face to the men. He was afraid, very afraid, for Elise. His fear must not show—a commander who couldn’t control his own fear wasn’t fit to command men.

  ‘The caves,’ Gawain said. ‘Tell me about them.’

  ‘The town sits on a bed of chalk—it has been mined for years. My lord, there are tunnels down there, side passages. Winter or summer the temperature never changes.’

  ‘That’s why it’s good for storage.’

  ‘Yes, my lord. Merchants rent cellars from the townsfolk. It’s always cool in the caves. Ideal for storing wine, for example. The space is highly prized because merchants don’t necessarily shift all their stock at the fairs. If they store it in the caves, they know it will be safe between fairs.’

  She will be cold.

  Gawain looked thoughtfully at the captain. ‘It sounds as though the caves would make a good prison.’

  The captain nodded. ‘They have been used for that purpose too.’

  Gawain gripped his reins. A prison? He shot Baderon a look. Dragging off his helmet, he hooked it over the pommel of his saddle and shoved his hand through his hair. Wild thoughts careered through his mind. For Elise not to have returned last eve she must be under constraint. And that was looking at matters in an optimistic light. At worst she might be... His mind refused to complete the thought. However, if her search for André had led her to the counterfeiters, they might want her silenced.

  Mon Dieu, that must not happen. It would not happen. He would find Elise and she would be well. Pearl needed her. Lord, he needed her. Elise had to be alive.

  He heard the captain talking about leaving their horses under guard beneath a plane tree. The words washed over him and he forced himself to focus on the task in hand. He would find Elise. The knots in his stomach eased, some tension remained to be sure, but he would feel better when he had found her. She will be safe.

  ‘How many entrances do you know of, Captain?’

  ‘At least half a dozen. There may be more.’

  ‘And you know the key holders, you say?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Very well.’ Dismounting, Gawain surrendered The Beast’s reins to one of the men. ‘Where do we start?’

  Chapter Twelve

  The door to the first cellar was set into a wall halfway up a sloping street.

  Gawain tapped his foot impatiently while Sainte-Colombe’s captain went through the ritual of rousing the key holder and gaining entrance. As the door creaked open, Gawain pushed through it and went down into the dark. It was much smaller than he had expected, a cramped cave rather than a cellar. His head almost brushed the ceiling. There were a few barrels, a broken hoist. Nothing of interest. There were no doors or passages leading elsewhere, just a cold, cramped cave.

  ‘Is that it?’ he asked, frowning. ‘I thought the caves were larger than this. Don’t they connect?’

  ‘Some do, some don’t.’ The captain spread his hands. ‘I’m sorry, my lord. This is one of the smaller cellars.’

  Grunting, Gawain went back into the warmth of the street.

  Four cellars later, the captain pointed across the street to another door. ‘That one’s said to be larger, my lord.’

  Gawain strode across. On the ground something flashed in the morning sun. He picked it up and his heart stopped. A tiny enamel pendant with a broken cord lay in the palm of his hand. Mouth dry, he stared at the exquisite enamelling, at the white daisy with its golden centre. His fingers closed over it and he examined the door. It was oak, studded and strengthened with iron. He cleared his throat. ‘This one, captain. We look in here.’

  The captain nodded. ‘Very well, my lord, I’ll send for the key.’

  Gripped by a sense of urgency, Gawain thrust Elise’s necklace into his pouch. ‘No time for the niceties.’ Elise was in there. He knew it. A look at the hinges told him that the door opened inwards. He signalled at one of the men. ‘Sergeant, do the honours, will you?’

  The sergeant and a couple of troopers put their shoulders to the door.

  Moments later, they stepped down into what appeared to be an underground hall. The ceiling was vaulted. Two rows of pillars marched deep under the town. A shadowy archway led further into the dark. The air was cool and smelt vaguely of earth.

  Snatching a torch from a soldier, Gawain made straight for the archway. Here, the walls were more crudely formed and he found himself staring down a tunnel roughly hewn out of the rock. The surface of the walls was gritty and uneven. Clusters of tiny mushrooms were flowering in cracks. The men crowded after him, their footsteps loud in the subterranean quiet.

  A trooper coughed. ‘Mon Dieu, what devil’s lair is this?’ He hastily sketched the sign of the cross on his breast.

  Ahead, the passage divided. Gawain lifted his hand. ‘Quiet.’ He picked out two men. ‘You two follow myself and the captain. The rest of you wait here until you are called. In silence.’

  The captain fell in behind him and they progressed to the point where the tunnel divided. Gawain examined the floor. He was hoping to find footprints or telltale scuff marks. There was nothing. And he had yet to see any goods.

  ‘This place doesn’t look as though it’s been used in years,’ he said.

  ‘There may be locked vaults ahead of us, my lord. Anything of value would be stored in the vaults.’

  ‘You take the right-hand tunnel, Captain. I’ll take the left. Take this man with you.’ He then pointed at the other trooper. ‘You come with me.’

  ‘Very good, mon seigneur.’

  Gawain’s torch made the walls glisten. He had only proceeded a few yards when he came across a door with a barred opening near the top. Even before he tried the latch, he knew it would be locked. He held the torch up to the grille.

  ‘Elise? Elise?’ The silence was that of the tomb. Gawain grimaced and pushed the thought away. God save him, let it not be the silence of the tomb. At the back of the vault, there was a neat stack of wine barrels. ‘Elise?’

  Nothing stirred. There was no scuttling that might indicate rats or mice. Just frigid air and the smell of damp earth and mushrooms.

  Ahead was another door. A little way on there was another—indeed, a whole line of doors seemed to run on into infinity.

  ‘Elise? Elise?’

  The sputter of the torch was loud in the quiet. Gawain cursed under his breath. He knew she was down here somewhere, but where?

  And then he heard something. A sighing of breath. A whisper? No, a sob.

  ‘Who’s there? Help! Please help.’

  Small fingers curved round the bars of one of the grilles. Heart in his mouth, Gawain angled the light towards the door. A pale face peere
d out at him. Eyes huge, black against the white of her face. Elise!

  He exchanged glances with the guard and they dropped their torches into a bracket by the door.

  ‘Stand back, sweetheart.’

  Elise’s fingers withdrew. He and the guard put their shoulders to the door. With a crack, the door burst open. Gawain snatched up the torch. She was crouched on the floor, huddled protectively over the body of a young man. The light flickered over a face that was tight with worry.

  ‘Gawain!’ He saw her swallow. ‘Thank heaven. I think André’s been here for some time. He won’t wake up.’

  Thrusting the torch at the guard, Gawain fell to his knees and reached for her. He’d never seen her look like this. He took her hands. Lord, they were cold. ‘You’re like ice.’ He touched her forehead. ‘Mon Dieu, Elise, you’re half-frozen.’

  Hand to her throat, Elise swallowed. ‘Mostly, I’m thirsty.’ She grimaced. ‘I’m so thirsty I had to stop singing.’

  Gawain could feel the anger rising. They’d been locked in here without water? As he suspected, the counterfeiters were afraid that they were about to be betrayed. Elise and André had been left to die.

  Pretending calm, Gawain lifted her into his arms. ‘Let’s get you to where there’s warmth and water.’

  ‘But, Gawain,’ she spoke hoarsely, ‘André—’

  ‘I’ve men outside. They’ll fetch a litter.’ He shouldered his way out into the passageway and raised his voice. ‘Captain!’

  A distant shout reached them.

  ‘To me! On the double!’ He looked down at Elise and gentled his tone. ‘I’m taking you to Provins Castle.’

  Nodding, she slipped her arm about his neck and laid her head on his chest.

  Gawain couldn’t help himself. He nuzzled her cheek. He hadn’t recognised how panicked he was until she put up her hand and stroked gently down his nose. It was a gesture he recalled from last year, and immediately it calmed him. Last year she had looked at him in just the way she was looking at him now. As though she...

  He dipped his head, conscious of the guard’s interested gaze yet unable to resist, and his mouth found hers. Her lips were cold and they softened to his touch. He kept it brief. ‘Thank God you’re safe.’ If he had lost her... It didn’t bear thinking about. His eyebrows drew together as another thought occurred to him. ‘Elise, you are a mother. You shouldn’t have put yourself at risk. You knew I was nearby. Why didn’t you apply to me for help? And I left my men at your command in Troyes. Why did you come to Provins without them?’

  She pulled her head back. ‘I wasn’t alone. Baderon—’

  ‘A lute-player? What protection could he have given you? Dear God, Elise, didn’t you think of the danger? What if we hadn’t found you?’ She made as if to interrupt, but Gawain swept on. ‘You’ve seen André’s condition. How long do you suppose he’s been here without food? Without water?’

  Sainte-Colombe’s captain ran up. ‘My lord?’

  ‘There’s an injured man back there in one of the vaults. Use a horse blanket as a litter and bring him out with all speed.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  Elise looked at the captain. ‘His name is André. If he wakes, please give him something to drink.’

  Gawain tightened his hold on Elise. ‘Captain, we’re going to the castle. Bring the man there.’ He strode on until they reached the large chamber that resembled a hall. Stalking past his men with her fast in his arms, he climbed the steps.

  Sainte-Colombe’s captain followed, Gawain heard him issuing instructions about bringing André out of the cellar. He gripped Elise. He wanted nothing more than to bury his head in her neck and inhale her scent. Control, man, control...

  ‘I was near mad with worry,’ he muttered. He hadn’t meant to confess it aloud. Her fingers clenched and unclenched on his tunic.

  ‘I am sorry, Gaw—my lord.’ Her voice was small. ‘I never meant to go in alone, but I lost sight of Baderon and...Gawain, I had to find him.’

  Gawain glowered down at her. ‘That is no excuse.’

  She let out a breath. ‘When I saw him it was clear he’d been down there some time.’

  Gawain carried her across the street. A dazzle of sunlight made her blink like an owl and a shudder went through her. ‘They didn’t mean for us to leave.’

  Gawain felt his throat tighten. He jerked his head at the man standing guard over the horses. ‘My horse, if you please.’

  He shifted her in his arms. She looked dainty and fragile. Beautiful. And so worried. It came to him that he would move heaven and earth to lift her worries from her. He found a smile. ‘You’re happy to ride before me?’

  She smiled and leaned her head against his chest.

  * * *

  There was no chance for private speech until they were inside Provins Castle. Gawain commandeered a guest chamber on the second floor, just off the solar. Placing Elise carefully on the bed, he stood back and looked her over with a critical eye.

  ‘You’re pale as a ghost.’

  A maidservant bustled in with a tray and set it on a side table. ‘Here’s the small beer you asked for, mon seigneur.’

  ‘My thanks.’

  ‘Shall I fetch food, my lord?’

  ‘Elise?’

  ‘I’m ravenous. May I have some bread, please? With honey.’

  Of course, how could Gawain have forgotten Elise’s sweet tooth? One night at Ravenshold, they’d demolished an entire almond cake between them. He looked at the maidservant. ‘Do you have any almond cake?’

  The maidservant smiled. ‘I think I might find some, my lord.’ Dipping into a curtsy, she left the chamber.

  Gawain had barely opened his mouth to ask Elise if she remembered that almond cake when another woman appeared with a towel and a water jug.

  ‘My lord, if you wouldn’t mind.’ The woman bobbed him a curtsy as the first one had done. ‘I would see to the lady. Perhaps you should withdraw.’

  Gawain did mind, but, recollecting that he was a betrothed man, he nodded. ‘I’ll be on the landing.’ He met Elise’s eyes. ‘I’ll be back when you are more comfortable.’

  Despite the thick walls the August heat had penetrated the heart of the castle and Gawain was itching to be out of his gambeson. No sooner was he in the stairwell, than he eased it off. While he waited, he fixed his gaze on a slice of blue sky visible through the window slit. He could hear murmuring in the bedchamber, although he couldn’t make out the words. The sound was oddly calming, which he supposed was a good thing because inside he felt anything but calm.

  Why hadn’t Elise appealed to him for help? She should have known she was courting trouble when she went into the cellar. Had she even thought about what would happen to Pearl if she had never returned? Why didn’t she trust him?

  Delving into his purse, he pulled out the daisy and studied the enamelling. It was smooth and perfect—top-quality Limoges probably. Who had given it to her? His guts felt cold. Was her heart taken? Had it been taken last year when they had become lovers? Gawain could see her standing in Count Henry’s palace after her performance, besieged by admirers. Doubtless Blanchefleur le Fay had hordes of men willing to fight for the privilege of paying her homage.

  Gawain thought about Sir Olier—of the eagerness with which he had solicited her favour for the tourney; of the way he had rushed to her side in the palace great hall. Sir Olier had been desperate to be the first to congratulate her after her singing. Elise’s response had been cool. Polite. Distant. If there was a man with a place in her heart it wasn’t him.

  She keeps men at a distance. Why?

  Gawain glanced at the bedchamber door. He hadn’t thought to check, but when he’d found her in the cave he didn’t recollect seeing Sir Olier’s ring on her finger. Yet clearly she’d been wearing this necklace. It ha
d to be of great significance.

  Last winter, the warmth that had flared between them had felt so real. He ran his thumb over the tiny white petals. Blanchefleur. She’d been wearing this then, but he hadn’t appreciated what it meant. She hadn’t breathed a word about her success as a singer. She’d kept that from him. He understood her reasons now. She’d been reserved because her purpose in Ravenshold had been to learn how her sister had met her death. She hadn’t wanted complications, and even if she had told him about the reality of her life as a chanteuse, he wouldn’t have appreciated the extent of her fame.

  Gawain’s life was military. He knew about garrisons and armouries; he knew how to man a castle and manage an estate; he knew the qualities to look for in a warhorse. Until he had heard Elise sing at the palace, he had thought her world—that of the troubadour—to be trivial, mere flummery. It hadn’t seemed relevant. Witnessing the way she had transported everyone at the banquet had given him new insight.

  The maidservant opened the bedchamber door. ‘You may go in now, my lord, though if you ask me you shouldn’t stay long.’

  Gawain’s lips twitched. The woman was very forward with her opinions. It was possible she disapproved of him bringing Elise to Provins Castle. But what else could he have done? He could hardly have taken her back with him to Sainte-Colombe! He merely smiled. ‘Thank you. I won’t be long.’

  ‘She needs rest, my lord. That knock to her head—’

  Gawain gripped the woman’s arm. ‘She’s hurt?’ Lord, he’d known she was thirsty and hungry, but they’d hit her? He felt sick at the thought.

  ‘Not badly, my lord, but she has a lump on her head the size of an egg.’

  Pressing silver into the maidservant’s hand, Gawain went straight to the bedside. Elise was lying back against the pillows. ‘You were hit?’

  ‘Gawain, it’s nothing.’

  ‘Let me see.’ Perching on the edge of the mattress, he drew her to a sitting position.

  Her hair had been wound into a loose knot at her neck. Gently, he undid it, parting the strands to get a closer look. There was a reddened area and, yes, a definite lump. Thankfully, the skin didn’t appear to have been broken. He sucked in a breath. ‘That must hurt.’