‘I was wondering if André had sent a message.’
‘There has been no news.’
‘In that case I must ask you to arrange an escort for me.’
‘You have plans for this morning, madame?’
‘Business in Troyes.’ Breaking off some bread, Elise started to eat. After a moment or two she became conscious of a strained silence. Her skin prickled.
Lady Avelina was biting her lip. She avoided Elise’s eyes. ‘Ex...excuse me, madame.’
The bench rocked as Lady Avelina left the table. With a sinking feeling, Elise saw that Sir Bertran’s face was no longer as relaxed as it had been when she had first come to table.
‘Sir Bertran?’
‘My apologies, madame, but it will not be possible for you to go into Troyes today.’
Elise dropped her bread on the table and her chin came up. ‘I do not think I understand you, sir. You are my steward, are you not?’
‘Indeed, madame.’
‘And you have yourself been riding out with me these past few days.’
‘Indeed, madame.’
‘But I cannot ride today?’
‘You may ride, madame, provided you remain on the estate.’ Sir Bertran cleared his throat. ‘You may not ride as far as Troyes. You must stay within the manor boundaries.’
A knot formed in Elise’s stomach, an unsettling mix of anger and fear. ‘You forbid me? How can this be? I thought this manor was mine and that all the retainers, including yourself and the guards, must follow my orders. Surely I may do as I wish?’
‘Yes, madame, of course you may.’ Sir Bertran shifted. He looked as though he was sitting on a heap of thorns. ‘In almost every respect. It is just that—’
‘Lord Gawain ordered you to constrain me.’
Her steward spread his hands. ‘Madame, it is for your safety.’
Elise gritted her teeth as the image of Gawain and Sir Bertran muttering together in the stable yard sprang into her mind. So that was what they’d been talking about! Before he had left for Paris, Gawain had given Sir Bertran orders forbidding her to leave the manor.
‘Did he give you orders to have me cloistered here permanently?’
‘My lady?’
‘Am I your prisoner, sir?’
Sir Bertran’s jaw dropped. ‘Prisoner? Lord, no. It is for your protection, madame.’
‘Protection?’ She spoke through clenched teeth. ‘It sounds very much like imprisonment.’ She lifted her eyebrow at him. ‘You won’t let me go to Troyes.’
‘With regret, madame, I will not.’
‘Not even if all the men make up my escort?’
‘I am sorry, madame, not even then. You may go anywhere you like within the estate.’
‘That’s not good enough. I need to go to Troyes.’
He bowed his head. ‘I am desolate, madame, but that is not possible.’
‘What about tomorrow? Will you take me tomorrow?’
‘Madame, I cannot.’
Her nails bit into her palms. ‘Lord Gawain has ordered you to confine me.’ She couldn’t believe it and yet the anger surging through her told her she must believe it. Gawain had confined her. She had had enough of confinement after being dumped in the convent with Morwenna and she had vowed it would never happen again. Gawain knew this, and yet here he was, imprisoning her. Le Manoir de Rosières was a very pretty prison and it had large boundaries, but as far as she was concerned it was a prison, none the less.
What would Sir Bertran do if she told him that she had decided to pack up the cart and leave for Poitiers? Except she couldn’t do that. Not without André. Not without Vivienne.
Her thoughts jumped this way and that. Was Gawain keeping her here so he could force her into being his mistress? He must know that she loved him. They had fallen upon each other in the bedchamber at Provins Castle. They had barely managed to stop. The attraction between them was as strong as it had ever been.
How humiliating. Gawain had deduced she wouldn’t be able to hold him at bay for ever. He had galloped off to Paris to conclude his marriage agreements with the King and when he got back he wanted to ensure that she was conveniently waiting for him here.
No. No. Her thoughts were running away with her. She knew better than that—Gawain would never force her. She took a steadying breath. Controlling her anger—she was beginning to see it was induced by panic at the thought of being confined—she narrowed her eyes at Sir Bertran. ‘Lord Gawain gave you these orders for my safety?’
‘Assuredly. Lord Gawain is concerned for your well-being. Madame, he was most discreet about what happened in Provins. None the less, he made it clear that whilst you were to be given free rein in the manor, you were not to ride into Troyes. It is dangerous.’ Sir Bertran curled his lip. ‘The place is full of riff-raff and until the Guardians have rooted them out, you are to remain here.’
‘I see.’ Elise searched her steward’s face. It was a kind face. It was also a strong face. Sir Bertran would not be swayed. Gawain had given him orders and he would obey them. Slowly, Elise unclenched her fists. It seemed that her only course was to persuade Sir Bertran to help her. ‘Your loyalty to Lord Gawain is admirable, sir.’
He grimaced. ‘I hope you will come to see my loyalty is also to you, madame.’
‘I hope so, Sir Bertran, because I do need your help.’
‘You are concerned about André.’
‘It’s been days since his meeting with Sir Raphael. We should surely have heard from him by now. Vivienne is mad with worry and, frankly, so am I.’
‘Sir Raphael is a good friend, madame. Would it ease your mind if I went to the garrison myself today?’
Elise felt herself relax. ‘Thank you, sir, that would be most kind.’ Elise wasn’t used to relying on others. It felt more than a little unsettling. However, if she was truly to become lady of this manor, she ought to try and start.
* * *
Sir Bertran took his time in Troyes. The morning dragged by, slow as a snail. He didn’t return.
Elise paced the hall. She walked up and down the manor garden, rocking Pearl in her arms. She took Pearl to the bench beneath the white roses. She jumped up again and paced some more—around the bay tree, up to the apple tree and back to the bench. And still there was no dust cloud on the road from Troyes, just a charcoal smudge on the horizon where clouds were building. Elise narrowed her eyes at them for a moment, slightly surprised at what she was seeing. Could it be smoke? No, the sky really was darkening with the first clouds she had seen for weeks. There was no sign of Sir Bertran or André.
Elise went into the stables with a vague idea of escape forming in her mind. She was showing Pearl the horses when Vivienne poked her head round the door. Vivienne was biting her lip so hard, she must surely draw blood.
‘What can have happened?’ Vivienne asked. ‘Where’s André and why isn’t Sir Bertran back?’
‘I’ve heard nothing.’ Elise walked down the stalls, studying the horses. She was judging which one would be the fastest and whether she could handle it. The chestnut gelding was a possibility; the black mare didn’t have enough muscle; the grey was too heavy boned. She homed in on the chestnut gelding. Most promising. ‘If we’ve heard nothing by suppertime, I swear I shall charge past the guards and gallop into Troyes myself.’
Vivienne looked at her, worry in her every line. ‘They’ll follow you.’
‘So? I shall ride like the wind. By the time they catch me I shall be at the garrison.’ Vivienne went on chewing her lip and Elise gave her a friendly nudge. ‘Don’t do that, love.’
Noon came and went. Elise’s stomach churned. She went back to the bench with Vivienne. More clouds were piling up. After weeks of endless blue they looked black and threatening.
Elise fanned herself with
the edge of her veil. ‘Saints, you’d think Champagne must melt in this heat.’
Vivienne focused on the clouds. ‘Do you think it will rain?’
‘I hope so. The land is parched. And rain might cool things down a bit.’ Elise eyed the steps leading to the top of the curtain wall. Truly, the combination of heat and tension was enough to drive one mad. ‘I’m going on to the walkway. I need to sing.’
Vivienne nodded and held out her arm. ‘I’ll take Pearl. She’ll want feeding soon, in any case.’
‘Thank you.’ Elise was glad she didn’t have to explain. Vivienne understood how her worries fell away when she sang. The song was all.
* * *
Gawain and Aubin were cantering along the road to Troyes. Triumph was a heady feeling, and the pounding in Gawain’s chest matched the beat of The Beast’s hoofs. The King had agreed to his petition. Count Gawain de Meaux and Lady Rowena de Sainte-Colombe were no longer betrothed.
Gawain was free. Completely free. A generous donation to the King’s favourite monastery had bought him the King’s leave to propose to the lady of his choice.
The Beast pounded along. His coat was flecked with foam and the heat rising from his body warred with the heat of the sun. Along the edge of Gawain’s vision, a dark bank of cloud was swallowing up the blue. He tore off his helmet and wiped grit from his face. He grinned at Aubin. ‘There will be a storm later.’
Aubin grinned back. They dug in their heels and sped along the dusty highway. Tall purple thistles rocked at their passing. The dry grasses waved.
Initially, Gawain’s audience with the King had been awkward, but by the end of it he’d been more than pleased. First, he’d handed the King a letter from Lady Rowena. Gawain had seen the letter. Indeed, Lady Rowena had asked him to aid her with its composition. Lady Rowena’s letter opened with her saying that she would, of course, obey her liege lord the King in all things—she would marry Lord Gawain if he so insisted. However, she felt obliged to inform the King that she had a higher calling. She wanted to become a nun.
Lady Rowena’s letter hadn’t cajoled or pleaded. She had simply stated her case and had closed by saying that she remained in all things her godfather’s obedient servant. She sent the King her good wishes and reassured him that she held him in her daily prayers. She awaited his decision, trusting that God would guide the King as He seemed to be guiding her.
And the King—himself the most pious of men—had agreed.
Gawain’s heart was lighter than it had been in weeks. He would shortly be seeing Elise. He was determined to make her his countess. They would marry and Pearl would be legitimised. Doubts remained, to be sure. Did Elise love him? Would she accept him as her husband? He brushed his doubts aside. The King had agreed to his petition. Today, all things were possible.
Poppies flashed by in a blur of red. They had reached the outskirts of Troyes.
Aubin waved at the castle rearing up behind the city walls. ‘Aren’t we stopping at the garrison?’
‘No time.’
They stormed past Troyes. When the manor appeared, Gawain slowed The Beast to a walk and wiped more grit from his face with his sleeve. He grimaced at Aubin. ‘I stink of horse and sweat.’
‘You’ll be wanting a bath, my lord.’
‘If you please.’
Aubin nodded and then frowned. ‘Which bedchamber will you be using?’
‘Mon Dieu, Aubin, I don’t care. But I can’t greet my lady like this.’
‘No, my lord.’
In Paris, Gawain had bought Elise a gold chain for her enamel necklace. He’d wanted to buy more, but he thought she’d enjoy the pleasure of choosing something for herself, and he knew she valued that enamel pendant. It would be safer on a proper gold chain. He would hunt out another gift—a betrothal gift—later. He glanced at the lute strapped to his saddlebag. He’d bought it for André, to replace the one the counterfeiters had broken. He intended to give it to the lad when he knew he’d done the right thing by helping the Guardian Knights in their quest to find the counterfeiters.
Gawain ran his gaze over the manor battlements, habitually checking the guards were in place. He could see the occasional glint of metal as they patrolled up and down and felt himself relax. He saw a splash of blue. A woman was up on the walkway. Elise? He couldn’t quite make out her features, but Elise had a gown in just that colour.
When he heard the singing he knew it was Elise. The song seemed to hang in the warm air. It was as though Elise were greeting him. Except she couldn’t possibly be greeting him, because she was facing east, facing that ominous bank of cloud. Gawain could imagine the look on her face though. It would be as rapt as it had been that night in Count Henry’s great hall. She was lost in her singing, blind to the world.
‘What are they doing?’ Aubin asked, pointing. Several villagers were gathered on the other side of the moat and were looking up at her.
‘Elise has an audience.’ Gawain shook his head and smiled. ‘Not that she’s noticed.’
The song—a ballad from the south—seemed to resonate deep inside. Gawain couldn’t make out the words, but the yearning in Elise’s voice made his heart ache. As they rode closer he recognised it.
It was a love song, a tragic love song about two lovers—a knight and a fairy who, despite their love, failed to bridge the divide between their two worlds. Gawain drew rein and allowed Elise’s voice to reach deep inside him.
His eyes prickled. Merciful heaven, what a voice! It was clear as a bell. Even though Elise was singing outside rather than in a hall, every word and syllable remained strong. The notes vibrated with passion. She was singing about love—was she singing from experience?
Gawain knew there was no other man in her life. Does she love me? She must love me to sing with such feeling. It was a heartening thought. The notes floated out over the estate, pure and true, wavering slightly when she reached the point in the story when the knight—afraid of losing his love—had her confined in a tower. Gawain stiffened. He had forgotten the ending.
The tale flowed inexorably on to its tragic climax. When the fairy flew out of the tower and vanished for ever, leaving only a handprint behind her. Gawain swore under his breath. Elise hated being confined. She really hated it. Lord, he ought not to have left instructions for her to be hemmed in on the estate. Still, he was back now and as soon as he explained that he had only been thinking of her safety, she would surely understand.
Chapter Sixteen
Having finished her song, Elise went through the hall on her way to the nursery. She was halfway to the stairwell when she realised that Sir Bertran’s squire was on her heels.
‘Gilles, you wanted to speak to me? You have news from Sir Bertran?’
‘Oui, madame.’ A pleat formed in Gilles’s brow. ‘Sir Bertran regrets that he was unable to send word earlier, but a fight broke out in Strangers’ City. Sir Bertran has joined forces with Sir Raphael and they are combing the camp for the troublemakers.’
‘And André?’
Gilles shuffled his feet and refused to meet her eyes. ‘Sir Bertran lost sight of him in the skirmish. We think he’s with Sir Raphael.’
Elise caught her breath. ‘You think André is with Sir Raphael—are you telling me you don’t know for certain?’
Gilles spread his hands. ‘I am sorry, madame.’
Anxiety balled in Elise’s stomach. She glanced at the hall entrance, but all she could see was the tawny hair and amber eyes of the man—Jerome—who had locked her in the cellar with André. He had such cold eyes. Dead eyes. The eyes of a killer?
André must be found. She had to get to Troyes—fast.
‘Gilles, this is not the message I was hoping for.’ She paused. ‘You understand you must say nothing of this to Vivienne?’
‘As you wish, madame.’
‘Thank you.’
Assuming a calm she did not feel, Elise retraced her steps and went out into the bailey. Regardless of Gawain’s orders, she was going to Troyes. Casually, humming under her breath, she drifted languidly towards the stable door. Once inside, her eyes landed, not on the chestnut gelding, but on an ugly black-stockinged bay being rubbed down by one of the grooms. The Beast. Gawain was back. She must hurry.
‘Lord Gawain has returned, I see,’ she said lightly.
‘Yes, madame.’
The gelding was stabled only a couple of stalls away. Moving towards it, Elise smiled at the groom. ‘What a beautiful animal. I’ve a mind to put him through his paces in the forecourt. Might I trouble you to reach down that saddle?’
* * *
Gawain was dragging on a clean tunic after his bath, rehearsing what he would say to Elise, when the door bounced open and Aubin hurtled in.
‘My lord, Elise has gone!’
Gawain’s throat went dry. ‘Explain.’
‘She’s taken the chestnut gelding. Gilles tells me that her friend André went into Troyes as you had hoped, but he didn’t come back. Sir Bertran went after him and—’
‘Elise has gone in to Troyes?’
‘Apparently.’
‘Why the devil wasn’t she stopped?’
‘She told the men she was going to try out the horse in the bailey. And with you having returned, the guards weren’t expecting her to gallop straight past them.’
Swearing, Gawain snatched up his sword. ‘Saddle fresh horses.’
* * *
Elise tore towards the city, clinging like a burr to the gelding’s back. Its hoofs drummed on the dry earth and she prayed she wouldn’t fall. Elise had never liked galloping—it took too much effort just to stay on. And today she was more distracted than she had ever been. Gawain was back. He would be furious that she had gone into Troyes, but he’d left her with no choice. She had to find André. What would she say to Vivienne if anything had happened to him?
The atmosphere was heavy, tense with the threat of thunder. Instinct kept Elise in the saddle. As the fields rushed past, hot air filled her lungs. After about three miles the tents of Strangers’ City came into sight, and she became aware of a horse pounding up behind her. Hauling on the reins, she slowed the gelding enough to shoot a glance over her shoulder. A few lengths behind her was the raw-boned grey from the manor stables. The horseman wasn’t wearing a helmet. His fair hair was whipped by the breeze. Gawain. The distance between them was closing fast.
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