‘Clare?’

Arthur’s thoughts were so clear he might as well have spoken them aloud. This was not the cramped loft in the Running Fox. The dormitory here was spacious. There was no excuse for them to be sleeping within reach of each other. Unless …

To remove any doubts as to her desires, Clare dropped her comb and held out her hand. ‘I think we shall both do very well. It’s beautifully warm by the chimney.’

Arthur dropped his cloak and sword on the pallet and sat down beside her. He set the lamp to one side. ‘Clare …’ His voice was thick. Reaching out, he picked up a strand of her hair and wound it round his fingers. His eyes went black. ‘It’s good to see your hair again. Those veils.’ he shook his head ‘… I prefer you without them.’

Clare set her hand on a broad shoulder and gave a little tug. Their lips met. The contact remained gentle until Arthur turned more fully towards her and gathered her to him. Clare closed her eyes and pressed against him, opening her mouth to his tongue. His masculine, earthy fragrance surrounded her.

His breathing ragged, he pulled back. Clare felt a soft touch on her cheek. He was shaking his head.

‘Clare, I am here to protect you, not ravish you.’

‘And if I want to be ravished?’

DUTY, HONOUR, TRUTH, VALOUR

The tenets of the Knights of Champagne will be sorely tested in this exciting Medieval mini-series by

Carol Townend

The pounding of hooves, the cold snap of air, a knight’s colours flying high across the roaring crowd—nothing rivals a tourney. The chance to prove his worth is at the beating heart of any knight.

And tournaments bring other dangers too. Scoundrels, thieves, murderers and worse are all drawn towards a town bursting with deep pockets, flowing wine and wanton women.

Only these three knights stand in their way. But what of the women who stand beside them?

Find out in Carol Townend’s Knights of Champagne Three Swordsmen for Three Ladies

LADY ISOBEL’S CHAMPION Already available

Book Three Coming soon

Unveiling Lady Clare
Carol Townend

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Carol Townend has been making up stories since she was a child. Whenever she comes across a tumbledown building, be it castle or cottage, she can’t help conjuring up the lives of the people who once lived there. Her Yorkshire forebears were friendly with the Brontë sisters. Perhaps their influence lingers …

Carol’s love of ancient and medieval history took her to London University, where she read History, and her first novel (published by Mills & Boon®) won the Romantic Novelists’ Association’s New Writers’ Award. Currently she lives near Kew Gardens, with her husband and daughter. Visit her website at www.caroltownend.co.uk

Previous novels by the same author:

THE NOVICE BRIDE

AN HONOURABLE ROGUE

HIS CAPTIVE LADY

RUNAWAY LADY, CONQUERING LORD

HER BANISHED LORD

BOUND TO THE BARBARIAN* CHAINED TO THE BARBARIAN* BETROTHED TO THE BARBARIAN* LADY ISOBEL’S CHAMPION **

*Palace Brides trilogy

**Knights of Champagne

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

AUTHOR NOTE

Arthurian myths and legends have been popular for hundreds of years. Dashing knights worship beautiful ladies, fight for honour—and sometimes lose honour! Some of the earliest versions of these stories were written in the twelfth century by an influential poet called Chrétien de Troyes. Troyes was the walled city in the French county of Champagne, where Chrétien lived and worked. His patron, Countess Marie of Champagne, was a princess—daughter of King Louis of France, and the legendary Eleanor of Aquitaine. Countess Marie’s splendid artistic court in Troyes rivalled Queen Eleanor’s in Poitiers.

The books in my Knights of Champagne mini-series are not an attempt to rework the Arthurian myths and legends; they are original romances set around the Troyes court. I wanted to tell the stories of some of the lords and ladies who might have inspired Chrétien—and I was keen to give the women a more active role, since Chrétien’s ladies tend to be too passive for today’s reader.

Apart from a brief glimpse of Count Henry and Countess Marie, my characters are all fictional. I have used the layout of the medieval city to create my Troyes, but these books are first and foremost fictional.

DEDICATION

To Kate Tremayne with love and thanks

for years of friendship and writerly chat.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter One

January 1174—Lodgings in the merchants’ quarter of Troyes, in the County of Champagne.

It was mild for January, and the shutters were open to make the most of the light. As Clare helped Nicola to move from her cot to the bench by the table, she was given a warm smile. Clare’s heart lifted—Nicola was weak and ill, and her smiles were precious.

‘I see you had a visitor while I was at market,’ Clare said.

Nicola grunted and eased back against the planked wall. ‘So I did, and it wasn’t just any visitor, it was a nobleman. A nobleman with a gift. It’s of no use to me, but you and Nell might enjoy it. I wanted to tell you before I told Nell. There’s no point in getting her overexcited if you refuse to take her. I know how you fret every time you leave the house.’

‘A gift?’ Clare settled a blanket around Nicola’s knees. Whoever Nicola’s mysterious visitor had been—Count Lucien, perhaps?—he had clearly done her good. Nicola’s eyes were brighter than they had been in months, she almost looked happy. Clare waited, Nicola would soon confirm the identity of her visitor—since Geoffrey’s death, there had been no secrets between them. ‘You are comfortable? If you’re in a draught, I can close that shutter.’

‘Lord, no, leave it open, there’s little enough light at this time of year.’

Clare removed the simple linen veil she invariably wore when going to market, and hung it on the hook, over her cloak. A strand of copper-coloured hair swung forwards. As she hooked it back into its plait, she glanced at the fire. It was burning low. A thin blue haze wound up to a vent in the rafters. ‘Shall I build up the fire?’

‘Clare, I’m fine. Save the wood until evening.’

Nodding, Clare lifted a basket on to the table and began to unload it. Flour. Cheese. A handful of withered pears. Onions. Dried beans. And, thanks to the generosity of Geoffrey’s liege lord, Count Lucien, some salt pork and dried fish.

‘No eggs?’ Nicola asked.

‘The price was madness. I’ll try again tomorrow, although I fear they won’t be cheap until spring.’ She glanced at Nicola. ‘Well? What is this mysterious gift?’

Nicola fumbled in her purse and slapped a coin on the table.

‘Money.’ Despite herself, Clare’s voice was flat. ‘Lord d’Aveyron has been here again.’

Every time Clare thought of Lucien Vernon, Count d’Aveyron, she couldn’t help but remember Geoffrey’s folly. His recklessness. Geoffrey had made some devil’s pact with a gang of thieves. Clare knew he had done it to help his mother—before his death he had confessed the whole. She also knew that Geoffrey had lived to regret it. He had tried to make amends, but the moment he had tried to wriggle out of the arrangement, he had signed his own death warrant. The thieves had killed him.

Clare knew about Geoffrey’s dealings with outlaws, as did Count Lucien. Nicola, on the other hand, did not—she lived in happy ignorance of her son’s fatal lapse of judgement. And as far as Clare was concerned, that was exactly how it should be. Nicola wouldn’t learn of Geoffrey’s shame from her—in her fragile state, it would likely kill her. Thus far, Count Lucien hadn’t breathed a word about Geoffrey’s transgression, but Clare dreaded his visits. Geoffrey had been one of Count Lucien’s household knights, and she was afraid that one day, the Count would let something slip...

‘There’s no need to look like that,’ Nicola said, sliding the coin towards her. ‘The Count is a good man, and he honours Geoffrey’s memory by keeping an eye on his mother. This isn’t money. Look closely.’

Setting the pears in a wooden bowl, Clare reached for the coin and saw that it wasn’t a coin at all. It was larger than a penny and made of lead rather than silver. ‘It’s a token.’

‘Yes.’

A picture of Troyes Castle was stamped solidly on one face; on the other was the image of a knight charging at full tilt. Clare’s stomach tightened and she put the token back on the table with a decisive snap. ‘I hope that’s not what I think it is.’

Some of the light went out of Nicola’s eyes. ‘That token gives entry to the stands at the Twelfth Night Joust—the seated area near the ladies. Clare, I thought...’ Nicola paused ‘...I hoped you’d want to go. Particularly if you had a seat on the ladies’ benches. You’d be safe there.’

Clare stared at the coin and repressed the urge to take a swift step backwards. The Twelfth Night Joust. Ever since the year had turned, the town had been talking of little else. ‘I can’t go.’

‘It would do you good. The only time you leave the house is when you go to market. I thought—’

‘Nicola, I go to market because we would starve if I didn’t, I don’t go because I like it.’

‘You’re afraid to go abroad, even after all this time.’

Clare’s chin went up. ‘Wouldn’t you be, if you were me?’

Nicola shook her head and sighed. ‘Yes. No. I don’t know.’ Her gaze sharpened. ‘I do know that you’re young and you can’t hide for ever. I thought you were happy here.’

‘I am, but—’

‘This is your home—you are safe in Troyes.’

‘Thank you for the thought, but I don’t want to go.’ Clare tapped the token with her fingernail. ‘Nicola, you could get good money for this, people are fighting to get their hands on them.’

Nicola’s eyes filled. ‘Nell would love to see the Twelfth Night Joust—you know she adores watching the knights. They remind her of Geoffrey.’

Clare narrowed her eyes. That was a low blow and Nicola knew it. ‘Nell can go with someone else. Speaking of Nell, where is she?’

‘Taking yarn round to Aimée’s.’

‘Couldn’t Aimée take her to the joust?’

Nicola made a pleading gesture. ‘I would much rather she went with you. Clare, please. Nell’s a child and I’m afraid that when she is grown she will have forgotten Geoffrey. I want her to be able to remember him. If she sees a joust, it will strengthen her memory.’

‘Strengthen her memory?’

‘When you get there you can tell her about him. Explain what’s happening. Let her see she can be proud of her brother—an ordinary boy, who received his spurs. I want her to be able to remember him, the brother who didn’t forget his mother in her hour of need.’

On the table, the lead token gleamed like a baleful eye. Regret and sorrow held Clare’s tongue. This was becoming awkward. Nicola’s pride in her son was almost all she had and Clare wasn’t about to take that away from her. She felt herself weaken.

Geoffrey had made many mistakes in his life, but as far as Clare was concerned he was a Good Samaritan. He’d given her—a complete stranger—a roof over her head. He’d trusted her to look after his mother. For all his flaws, Geoffrey had loved his mother dearly and Clare knew he would want her to honour his mother’s wishes.

Taking Nell to the Twelfth Night Joust was, on the surface, a small favour. On the surface...

‘Nicola, what if the joust distresses her? There might be bloodshed.’ Clare repressed a shudder. True, the Twelfth Night Joust was reputed to be more of a show than a battle. A show put on for the ladies of Champagne. But it was still a joust. There would be fighting and Clare couldn’t stand the sight of blood. It reminded her of...of things best forgotten. Pushing that dark memory to the back of her mind, she had to swallow before she could continue. ‘Nell might remember that her brother lost his life at a tournament.’

‘Geoffrey wasn’t killed in the lists. Count Lucien explained how he was killed preventing an attack on Countess Isobel. That is entirely different, and Nell knows it. Please take her, Clare, she’d love to go with you.’

‘The Twelfth Night Joust,’ Clare murmured, shaking her head. ‘Holy Virgin, give me strength.’ What Nicola was asking was no light thing. Never mind that she didn’t like going abroad, she wasn’t sure she trusted herself if the violence got out of hand. An image of bloodstains darkening a man’s tunic swam before her. She might faint. Or—more likely—become sick. If there was bloodshed, she was bound to draw attention to herself...

‘Please, Clare. Please.’

Clare reached for the token and her heart turned over as she slipped it into her purse. ‘Very well. For you, I shall take Nell to the Twelfth Night Joust.’

Nicola’s face lightened. ‘Thank you, my dear, I am sure you will enjoy it when you get there. Pass me my spindle and wool, would you? I don’t like being idle.’

Soon the gentle rattle and whir of a drop spindle filled the room. Nicola’s fingers were no longer nimble and she tired quickly. The finished yarn was likely to have many bumps and imperfections in it, but Clare knew she found solace in her work. And it wasn’t as if the resulting yarn was unusable, Nicola’s neighbour Aimée wove a surprisingly serviceable homespun out of it. Alexandrian brocade it was not, but the flaws gave stuff made from Nicola’s yarn an unusual texture that was oddly appealing. The titled ladies Clare would be rubbing shoulders with on the stands would likely turn their noses up at such cloth, but Clare was more than happy to wear it.

As Clare watched Nicole’s aged fingers twisting the yarn, she had a strange thought. If all imperfection was eradicated from the world, it would be a much poorer place.

* * *

Sir Arthur Ferrer, Captain of Count Henry’s Guardian Knights, stood in his green pavilion while his squire laced him into his gambeson and sighed. All these years he had waited to have his own pavilion and now that he finally had one, what should he find? He missed the company of his fellow knights. He missed the banter and he missed the rivalry.

‘Holy hell,’ he muttered, shoving his hand through his dark hair.

His squire, Ivo, looked up. ‘Too tight, sir?’

Arthur flexed his shoulders and smiled. ‘No, it’s perfect. My thanks, Ivo.’

Since the Winter Fair had ended, the town had emptied and there were fewer troublemakers to deal with. None the less, Arthur was conscious of a growing sense of malaise. He couldn’t account for it. It wasn’t that he had little to do—he’d be the last to say the streets of Troyes had been entirely cleared of wrongdoers. Human nature being what it was, that day would probably never dawn, but—

The door flap pushed back. A head that was as fair as Arthur’s was dark appeared in the opening.

‘Gawain!’ Mood lifting, Arthur gestured him in. ‘Welcome.’

Sir Gawain stooped to enter and went to the trestle where he made a show of reviewing Arthur’s arms. ‘Saw the unicorn on the pennon and realised you’d be in here.’ Idly, he picked up Arthur’s damascened sword, testing its weight. ‘Is this the one your father made?’

Arthur tensed and forced himself to relax. Gawain was a friend and there had been no mockery in his voice, but one could never be sure. ‘Yes.’

‘It’s a fine sword, it has wonderful balance. Will you be using it?’

‘Not today, I’m holding it in reserve for a real fight. Are you competing, Gawain? I didn’t see your pavilion.’

‘I’m sharing Luc’s, which is a mistake. It’s hellishly crowded.’

‘If you can stand some less exalted company, you are welcome to join me.’

‘My thanks, I don’t mind if I do. Give me a moment, while I find my squire.’

Ducking out of the pavilion, Gawain vanished. He was back, squire in tow, before Arthur had belted on his sword.

‘I’ve yet to speak to Luc,’ Arthur said, as Ivo cleared space on the trestle for Gawain’s arms. ‘How do matters stand at Ravenshold? Is all well?’

Sir Gawain was steward of Count Lucien d’Aveyron’s nearby castle, Ravenshold. It was a position Arthur had occupied until recently, when he had resigned to join the Guardian Knights.

‘Well enough.’ Gawain spoke lightly, but his mouth proclaimed him a liar—it was turned down at the corners.

Arthur looked thoughtfully at him. Gawain looked as though he hadn’t slept in days. ‘I hear Countess Isobel is to be Queen of the Tournament.’

‘Aye, she’s handing out the prizes,’ Gawain said, staring moodily at the turf. ‘Can’t remember if I’ve asked you this already, Arthur, but you haven’t seen Countess Isobel’s maid, Elise, have you?’

‘Elise? I don’t think I know her.’

Gawain swore softly. ‘Dark girl. Shy.’

‘It’s not like you to mislay a woman.’ Arthur would have said more, but something in Gawain’s expression stopped him.

Arthur had never seen Gawain look so down in the mouth. Surely he was not pining for a maid? Impossible. ‘What you need, my friend, is a visit to the Black Boar. They’ve got a new wench, name of Gabrielle—’

Gawain laughed. To Arthur’s ears the sound was a trifle strained.

‘You’ve learned her name? She must be good.’

‘I tell you, Gawain, she’s a wonder. Very imaginative. The food’s as bad as ever, but they’ve just taken delivery of a barrel of wine from Count Henry’s vineyard. I’ve yet to taste better.’

Gawain nodded. ‘The Black Boar this evening? Very well.’

‘Usual rules?’

‘Aye, the man with least points at the end of the joust must pay.’

Arthur grinned. ‘Good man! I look forward to lightening your purse.’

* * *

Clare gripped Nell’s hand as they were ushered into the stands. Across the lists, the walls of Troyes Castle rose up like a rock face, glistening with frost. The sky was clear, the air crisp. Count Henry’s colours—blue, white and gold—were flying above the castle battlements amid a swirl of pigeons. Guards were stationed up there. A number of men had squeezed into the crenels—the gaps between the merlons—and were peering down at the field.

‘This entitles you to a seat on the front row, ma demoiselle,’ the boy said, as he took the token from Clare. He was wearing a blue tunic with a diagonal white band and golden embroidery brightened the cuffs of his sleeves. Count Henry’s colours again. This must be a castle page. Other pages in matching tunics were performing similar duties.

Clare squeezed on to a bench with Nell jiggling about at her side like a fish in a hot skillet. Fearful that Nell might crush the gown of the woman next to her, Clare caught the woman’s eye and murmured an apology.

Somewhat to her surprise, the woman gave Nell an indulgent smile. ‘It’s her first joust?’

‘Yes.’ Clare was reluctant to talk to strangers. They tended to exclaim about her odd eyes and sometimes that led to questions she was unable to answer. So she smiled and turned her gaze to the field.

The knights’ pavilions were clustered in groups at either end of the lists. A forest of pennons rippled in the breeze—blue, green, red, purple... The knights on her right hand represented the Troyennes, whilst the team on her left was made up of visitors—Count Henry’s guests with a few volunteers from his retainers to swell the numbers. A cloying sweet perfume filled the air, fighting with other smells—with human sweat, with wood smoke, with roasting meat.

Nell dug her in the ribs. ‘The blue tent is Lord d’Aveyron’s, is it not?’

Nodding, Clare drew Nell’s attention to the pennon fluttering above the blue pavilion. ‘Can you see the black raven on Count Lucien’s pennon? Knights have different colours and devices so they can recognise each other when their visors are down.’

‘Yes!’ Nell’s forefinger began stabbing in all directions. ‘The pennon on the next tent has a wolf on it. And, look, there’s a green one with a unicorn. Whose is that? I like unicorns.’

‘I don’t know the knight’s name, but I’ve seen his colours about town. Maybe he is one of Count Henry’s Guardians.’

‘Geoffrey had a blue pennon with wiggly white lines on it,’ Nell said, wistfully. ‘He told me that white stands for silver.’

Clare gave her a swift hug. ‘His friends will be jousting today.’

Nell lapsed into a brief silence, but she was already smiling again, eyes eagerly darting this way and that, taking it all in. The teams were mustering at either end of the field.

‘Here come the horses! Look, Clare, they have colours, too.’

‘The destriers are caparisoned to match their knights.’

Nell’s face was rapt. She looked so happy, Clare’s chest squeezed to see it.

‘My brother was a knight.’ Nell was on her feet, still jiggling, clinging to the handrail. Her voice rang with pride. With happiness.

Children were extraordinary, Clare thought. They often coped with death far better than adults. At least on the outside. By God’s grace, Geoffrey’s death would not affect his little sister too badly. I am glad I brought her, she needed to see this. Nicola was right to insist that we came.

* * *

By the lance stands, Arthur took up his reins and patted Steel’s white neck. There was nothing like a joust to sharpen the mind. The ennui that had gripped him earlier had vanished, as it invariably did when he took to the saddle. There would be no bloodshed today, or very little. There would certainly be no guts. Count Henry had decreed that this Twelfth Night Joust was entirely for the ladies. Still, even a milk-and-water event like this was better than nothing, it was all practice.

A light tinkling sound pulled Arthur’s gaze towards one of Count Henry’s household knights. The knight, Sir Gérard, was making up numbers on the team opposite. Bells? Surely not? But, yes, tiny bells were attached to his horse’s mane. Arthur held down a laugh.

Sir Gérard was a favourite with the ladies in the Champagne court. As the marshal signalled, and the trumpets blared for the knights to line up for the review, Gérard let his horse prance and curvet in front of the main stand—the stand upon which Countess Marie de Champagne and Countess Isobel d’Aveyron were seated.

The ladies cooed and sighed at Gérard. Arthur exchanged glances with Gawain and looked heavenwards. Gérard had flirtation with noblewomen down to a fine art and he was not one to waste the chance to strut about before a stand full of them.

Countess Isobel was wearing the elaborate crown that proclaimed her Queen of the Tournament. The crown was counterfeit—like the Twelfth Night Joust it was all show and little substance. Coloured glass winked and flashed with Countess Isobel’s every move, and fake pearls gleamed. Notwithstanding her false bauble, Countess Isobel looked beautiful. Fair as an angel. Poised. Lord d’Aveyron had every reason to be proud of his new Countess.

A drum roll had the crowd shouting with anticipation, reminding Arthur that this was a show for the people, too. He glanced at the townsfolk pressing up to the rope that ran along the other side of the lists.

‘Count Henry should have been a merchant,’ he murmured.

Gawain frowned. ‘How so?’

‘He knows a joust will draw traffic and trade back to Troyes. No sooner does the town empty after the Winter Fair than he organises this. Clever.’

The bells tinkled in the mane of Sir Gérard’s horse. The ladies tittered. At the edge of his vision, a blue scarf flickered in the stands.

‘Sir Gérard, wear my favour, if you please.’

‘No, sir, pray do not. Wear mine!’

‘No, no! Wear mine!’

More giggles floated from the ladies’ stand. The tinkling bells sparked in the winter sun. Arthur shook his head at Sir Gérard and reminded himself that this was entertainment for ladies.

Just then, even as the trumpets blared for the review, a man ran to the front of the ladies’ stand. As Arthur guided Steel into his place in the line, he watched him. The man was well dressed, in a fur-lined cloak and a tunic that stretched too tightly across a wide expanse of belly. A merchant, most likely. His hood was down and a bald patch on the back of his head gleamed. Whoever he was, he should not be on the field. A page had seen him and was shouting at him.

‘Sir! Sir! Clear the field!’

The merchant took no notice, he was making straight for a girl in the front row. She was simply dressed and looked vaguely familiar. The girl was sitting a little to one side of Countess Isobel in her glittering crown, so she must have some connection with Count Lucien, but Arthur couldn’t place her.

The trumpets blared. Arthur kicked Steel’s flanks and started down the lists. As the herald began calling out knights’ names and ranks, Gawain took the place at his side.

Arthur glanced back at the stand. Two castle pages were standing at the merchant’s elbows, urging him from the field. Brushing them off, the merchant had taken the girl’s hand and was speaking to her. Arthur’s gaze sharpened. The girl pulled her hand free and put her arm round a small child. Oddly, the gesture struck him as defensive rather than protective. Whatever was being said, the girl didn’t want to hear it.

‘Sir Arthur Ferrer!’ The herald’s cry jerked him back to the business in hand.

Arthur lifted his arm in salute, and the crowd roared. Sir Gérard might have the favour of the ladies, but Arthur liked to think he had the common touch. By the time he had finished his parade about the lists and had reached the main stands, the pages must have won their tussle with the merchant, for there was no sign of him.

* * *

Shaken, Clare hugged Nell to her and stared blindly in front of her as the knights rode past. Luckily, the knight with the unicorn on his pennon was approaching to salute the Queen of the Tournament and Nell was watching him, stars in her eyes. Clearly, Nell had chosen this knight as her champion and Clare’s interaction with the merchant had passed unnoticed. A knight on a white charger, caparisoned in green silk, was far more interesting than any conversation Clare might have with a stranger. Thankfully.

The merchant—his name was Paolo da Lucca—had slipped back into the throng on the other side of the lists. It had been kind of him to warn her, but Clare had hoped never to see him again. With one little phrase—‘slavers have been seen in Troyes’—he had frozen the blood in her veins.

Slavers. Will I ever escape?

It would seem not. The last time Clare had seen Paolo had been when he had given her passage on one of his carts carrying merchandise out of Apulia. On that occasion, Paolo had been bound for Paris and they had parted ways outside Troyes, where—thank the Lord—the young knight, Sir Geoffrey of Troyes, had found her. Clare didn’t like to think what might have happened to her if Geoffrey hadn’t found her. She’d had neither money nor friends and Nicola’s lodgings had become home, her first real home. Clare’s eyes prickled. If slavers were in Troyes, she would have to leave.

I want to stay!

The thought of leaving Nicola and Nell was unbearable.

Nell was shaking a strip of Aimée’s homespun at the knight in the green surcoat. Favours of every colour of the rainbow were fluttering in his direction, but, amazingly, the knight had noticed Nell.

Clare felt his gaze wash over her and his destrier turned towards them.

‘He’s seen me!’ Nell was quivering with excitement. ‘He’s coming over!’

Nell danced up and down, waving Aimée’s cloth in the manner of a high-born lady offering her favour to her chosen knight. ‘Sir! Sir knight! Take my favour!’

Clare sighed. A great knight like this would surely ignore a little girl? He would take the silken favour of some noblewoman behind them and she would spend the rest of the day mopping up Nell’s tears.

To her astonishment, the grey—Clare seemed to recall that knights referred to white horses as grey—halted at the barrier directly in front of them. Harness creaked. The knight’s green pennon snapped in the breeze; the unicorn on his shield was dazzlingly bright.

‘Sir knight?’ Nell said, her voice doubtful as she stared at the flaring nostrils of the destrier. She held out the scrap of cloth. Simple, ordinary homespun, slightly ragged at the edges.

The knight—his visor was up—inclined his head at Clare. He was so close, she could see his eyes—they were dark as sloes. He smiled at Nell and whisked the strip from her fingers. The destrier shifted and drew level with Clare.

‘My lady?’ the knight said, leaning down and proffering his arm. ‘Do you mind assisting?’

I am no lady. Nevertheless, Clare nodded and wound the strip of fabric round his mailed arm. The knight stared thoughtfully at her. ‘My thanks.’ He was looking at her eyes—everyone did.

Spurs flashed and knight and charger surged back on to the field. Behind them, someone sighed.

‘Sir Arthur never takes my favour,’ a woman said, in aggrieved tones. ‘And now he takes a child’s!’

Clare felt a pull on her skirts.

‘He took my favour! He took my favour!’ Nell stared after him. ‘Is he one of Geoffrey’s friends?’

‘It seems likely. I think he’s a Guardian Knight. He’s very important!’ Clare recalled Geoffrey mentioning a knight by the name of Arthur who had at one time been steward of Ravenshold. This must be he. It was possible Count Lucien had asked him to look out for them.

‘I wonder who he is,’ Nell said.

‘If you listen to the herald, you will hear the names. He was announced as Sir Arthur Ferrer.’

The trumpets blared and other knights paraded by. More favours exchanged hands. Count Lucien was riding towards the stands to greet his wife, the Queen of the Tournament.

‘Look, Nell, here is Geoffrey’s liege lord.’

‘He will take Countess Isobel’s favour,’ Nell said, confidently.

Murmuring agreement, Clare let her gaze wander beyond the knights to the crowd behind the rope on the other side of the lists. Was Paolo da Lucca among them? She saw faces she recognised, but not the merchant’s. She should have asked more about the slavers, but she had been too stunned to think straight. And now she had no way of finding him. She had no idea where he was lodged, she had missed her chance.

Vaguely, Clare was conscious of Count Lucien riding past, of him giving Nell a little salute. Nell squeaked and jiggled. Her cheeks were bright with excitement. Clare returned the Count’s smile. It had been kind of him to find Geoffrey’s sister a place on the ladies’ stand.

As the knights lined up at either end of the lists, in preparation for the first tests of horsemanship, Clare scoured the townsfolk opposite.

If only she could find Paolo.

She sighed. She felt settled in Troyes. She was weary of looking over her shoulder, weary of wondering when she would feel the tap on her shoulder that announced that her days of freedom were over.

It would seem that she was as much a slave as she had been when she had arrived. Would she ever be free? Some days, all Clare had were her doubts and, sadly, this was just such a day. Whatever she did, however hard she tried to blend in, she would never succeed. People couldn’t help but notice her eyes.

Mismatched eyes, one grey, one green, were hard to hide.

Chapter Two

Arthur steadied Steel and stared down the lists. Thus far, the contest was even. His team—Count Lucien’s Troyennes—had won as many points as Sir Gérard and the Visitors. They had come to the last few deciding bouts of the individual jousting. Mindful of the ladies, lances were blunted—there would be no mêlée today. Count Henry had decided that Countess Marie was too delicate to watch one. The word went that she was with child.

Arthur was eager to see who he had been drawn against for the next few passes. When Sir Gérard rode on to the field and his squire hefted his lance from the stand and handed it to him, Arthur grinned. It would be amusing to see how Gérard reacted when he was unhorsed and his pretty armour muddied. It was a reasonable ambition and Arthur had the best of three tries to realise it.

The marshal hadn’t given the signal to engage, and as Arthur waited, he could have sworn he heard the faint tinkling of bells from the other end of the lists. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the little girl whose favour he had taken shift impatiently on the ladies’ stand. He blew her a kiss. This one’s for you, little one. The girl crimsoned. She was gripping the handrail as though her life depended on it. What a sweetheart, she really wanted him to win.

For a moment, her companion’s striking, mismatched eyes swam before him. They were most uncommon. One grey, one green. He had never seen their like before. Except...at the back of his mind, a wisp of a memory called to him.

Wait—surely I have seen those eyes before? They remind me of...

The memory slipped beyond reach. Elusive. Yet he knew he had seen those eyes before. As he tried to hunt the memory down, the marshal bellowed.

Arthur gripped his lance and put everything out of his mind save the joust. Trumpets blared and Steel leaped into a gallop. This first pass must count, Sir Gérard was about to be unhorsed. Steel thundered over the ground. Conscious of the ladies in the stands screaming for his opponent, Arthur kept his eye on his target. Ten yards, five...

His lance glanced off Gérard’s shield and splintered into a thousand shards. Gérard’s lance had missed Arthur entirely and Gérard, distracted no doubt by the screaming ladies, rocked in the saddle.

‘My point, I believe,’ Arthur muttered.

Steel pulled up sharply at the other end and whirled about. Arthur was handed a second lance and a heartbeat later he was tearing back towards Gérard. Clumps of turf flew every which way. Gérard had been wrong-footed by that first pass and his shield wavered. The silver bells trembled.

Arthur gave no quarter and his lance connected with Gérard’s shield. It was almost too easy. Gérard flew from his saddle and hit the ground with a thud. As his horse raced away, the light chiming of bells lingered in the air.

Half the crowd groaned, the other half roared. Best of three meant that it was over for Sir Gérard, who sat up with a groan, wrenched off his helmet, and tossed it aside. Gérard might be popular with the ladies of the court, but he was less popular with the townsfolk. It was Arthur the townsfolk were cheering.

Arthur lifted his visor and raised a hand to acknowledge the cheers. Behind the ropes, the citizens of Troyes stamped and whistled and yelled. And Arthur was not without supporters on the ladies’ platform either. His little lady was fairly screaming with excitement, jumping up and down like a cat on coals. The young woman with the mismatched eyes was smiling down at her. Briefly, she looked across at him, and lifted her hands in applause. Mismatch. It was too far away for him to see those curious eyes, but the wind lifted the edge of her veil, revealing hair that shone bright as copper in the winter sunlight. Again a shiver of recognition ran through him.

Who is she? I have not met her, yet I know those eyes. Who is she?

* * *

By the time the Queen of the Tournament rose to her feet to award the prizes, Arthur had worked out where he had seen the young woman before. He had seen her at Geoffrey’s funeral.

Sir Geoffrey had been one of Count Lucien’s household knights and, before his untimely death, Arthur had known him well. The lad had been killed, ostensibly while protecting Lady Isobel, at a tournament held at the Field of the Birds. The young woman on the ladies’ stand had attended Geoffrey’s funeral. The last to leave after Geoffrey had been interred, she had stood, head bowed over the grave, a slim auburn-haired woman in rough homespun. Throughout the funeral rites, she had looked as though she had been on the verge of making a run for it. A nervous, shrinking violet, Arthur had thought. He had not been near enough to notice her odd eyes at Geoffrey’s funeral, so it must have been her hair that had given him that sense that he had met her before. It was the same girl, no question. According to Lucien, she wasn’t related to Geoffrey. Had she and Geoffrey been lovers?

The peculiar exchange Arthur had seen earlier pushed into his mind. What had that merchant said to her? It had clearly upset her. Had the man been threatening her? If so, why? Arthur would give a day’s pay to know what had passed between them. Was it in some way connected with Geoffrey’s death?

Count Lucien harboured doubts as to Geoffrey’s honesty. Before Christmas, he had mentioned that he suspected Geoffrey of involvement in the theft of a relic from the Abbey. Arthur hadn’t paid much attention at the time and he should have done. A gang of outlaws was known to be working the area. This girl could have links with them. If so, as Captain of Count Henry’s Guardians, it was very much Arthur’s business. Count Henry wanted Champagne cleared of outlaws. The Guardians had been established for that very purpose. Arthur’s first duty was to keep the roads and highways safe for honest folk.

The Winter Fair was over and tomorrow the town would settle down after the tournament. It was the perfect chance to root out the thieves, once and for all. If the girl had any connection with them, Arthur must know of it. As soon as he might, he would seek her out and judge for himself whether she was involved. Count Henry would expect no less of the Captain of his Guardian Knights.

A trumpet blast cut through the babble of the crowd, jerking Arthur out of his thoughts. The field was awash with blue pennons and Countess Isobel was preparing to hand out the prizes. Her husband, Count Lucien, had won the individual prize and his team—the Troyennes—had won the team prize.

As Count Lucien rode towards his countess in her glittering crown, Arthur lifted his voice along with the rest. It was good to fight on the winning side. He and Gawain would be celebrating when they visited the Black Boar.

* * *

Late the next morning, Nicola was dozing on her cot by the fire. Clare had sent Nell to deliver another batch of wool to Aimée and the child had been gone some while. No more than mildly concerned, for Aimée had two girls of her own and Nell enjoyed visiting them, Clare glanced through the shutters to see if the children were out in the street. Nell usually reappeared in time for the noonday meal.

She caught movement on the left, a quick flash of green. Someone was approaching the house. Her fingers curled into her palms, and although she was braced for it, the sharp rap on the door had her leaping out of her skin. Heart jumping, Clare set her hand on the planks and peered through a knot-hole.

‘Who’s there?’

A cream-coloured tunic stretched across a wide chest. A silver cloak pin held a green cloak in place. ‘Good day, ma dame. Sir Arthur Ferrer at your disposal.’

Nell’s champion. Clare glanced at Nicola and heard a light snore. Nicola usually had trouble sleeping and Clare was loathe to disturb her. Sir Arthur was surely no threat. Last night she had learned that he had indeed been sworn to Count Lucien before he had taken charge of the Guardians. Sir Arthur had known Geoffrey. She could surely speak to him outside the house, it would only be for a moment. Telling herself this knight couldn’t possibly know what had brought her to Troyes, she lifted her cloak from its peg and unlatched the door. She was unveiled—no matter, this wouldn’t take long.

‘Good morning, Sir Arthur.’ She gave him a quick curtsy. Sir Arthur’s hair was brown, thick and glossy. He was wearing his sword, but there was no sign of his squire or the grey destrier. At a guess, he had walked from the garrison as it wasn’t far. ‘My apologies for not inviting you in, sir, but there’s only one chamber and Nicola is sleeping.’

‘Geoffrey’s mother?’

‘Yes, she sleeps so poorly, I don’t want to wake her.’

Clare paused, hoping he would state his business at once. With a sinking heart, she saw his dark gaze shift from her eyes to her hair. Swiftly, she pulled up her hood. Lord, but her looks were such a curse. If there was anything that proved that God must love irony, it was her colouring. He gives me every reason to want to escape notice and then curses me with dramatic red hair and odd eyes.

‘Did Count Lucien ask you to visit, sir?’

His eyes held hers. ‘What is your name?’

‘I am called Clare.’ If Clare had ever been christened, she had never known it. Clare was the name she had chosen for herself after she had fled Apulia.

‘Clare,’ Sir Arthur murmured, studying her eyes. He shook his head. ‘I thought your name might mean something, but...’

‘Mon seigneur?’

A muscle flickered at the side of his jaw. ‘I am a knight, mistress, not a lord.’

‘Sir?’

‘Never mind.’ His thumb tapped the hilt of his sword. ‘Your accent is unfamiliar, you were not born in Troyes.’

‘No, sir.’

The dark eyes looked at her. Then, to her astonishment, he crooked his arm at her. ‘You will walk with me a while.’

Clare hesitated. She was reluctant to walk abroad with a knight from the garrison, she didn’t trust men, but she recognised a command when she heard one. Telling herself that a knight once sworn to Lord d’Aveyron would hardly carry her off in broad daylight, she laid her fingers lightly on his arm and he drew her down the street, towards the square. She began to pray.

Dear Lord, let Paolo have been mistaken. If the slavers were in town and saw her...

‘I cannot be long, sir. Nell might come back and—’

‘Nell?’ The handsome face relaxed. ‘The little girl who gave me her favour?’

‘Yes.’

‘We won’t go far. There is a matter I must discuss with you out of earshot of Geoffrey’s mother.’

There was a thudding in Clare’s ears as her fears rushed in on her. Was this about Geoffrey? Or had Sir Arthur discovered her secret? Had her master in Apulia discovered her whereabouts?

Slavery was not permitted in Champagne. It was the reason Clare had come to Troyes. But she had learned from what had happened to Geoffrey that injustices still abounded. She lived in dread of the knock on the door, of the moment when she learned that the slaver known as the Veronese had found her.

I will never go back. Never!

‘Sir Arthur, you...’ she took a deep breath ‘...you are Captain of the Guardian Knights, are you not?’ Nicola had told her as much last eve, when Clare had brought an overexcited Nell home. The child had talked non-stop about ‘her knight, Sir Arthur’. It was a wonder any of them had got any sleep.

Sir Arthur nodded and Clare kept telling herself that she had nothing to fear from him. It wasn’t easy convincing herself. This man was a stranger and, until Geoffrey had brought her to his mother’s house, strangers hadn’t shown her much kindness.

The square opened out in front of them, it was almost deserted. A few hens were scratching in the dirt outside the tavern; two women were folding sheets in front of one of the tall, wood-framed houses; and a boy was staggering under the weight of a huge bucket, slopping water as he went.

‘Were you married to Geoffrey?’ Sir Arthur asked, bluntly.

Clare blinked. ‘No.’ Geoffrey had been good to her, more than good. He had offered to marry her, thinking marriage to him would protect her in the event that the Veronese ever found her, but he had understood her reluctance. Marriage was, to Clare’s mind, only a small step above slavery. In any case, Sir Geoffrey of Troyes had no business marrying a runaway slave. Even if she had wanted to marry Geoffrey, she would have refused him. As she would refuse any man. Marry? Never.

‘He was your lover?’

Squaring her shoulders, Clare met that dark gaze directly. ‘I fail to see why I should answer that, sir. It is none of your affair.’

His lips twitched in amusement and her breath caught. When he lost that stern expression, Sir Arthur was heart-stoppingly attractive.

‘Perhaps you are in the right. My apologies, ma dame—or should I say ma demoiselle?’

‘As you wish, sir.’

‘Ma demoiselle, it shall be then, ma demoiselle Clare. At yesterday’s tournament, a man approached you at the stands. Would you care to tell me what he said?’

‘He... I...I do not know him well, sir.’

‘That tells me nothing.’ The dark eyes never left her. Sir Arthur drew his eyebrows together. ‘It seemed to me you were afraid of him.’

Clare bit her lip. Instinct was telling her that she could trust this knight, but that didn’t mean she was ready to confess to being a runaway slave.

And it certainly didn’t mean she was ready to tell him what had happened between her and Sandro...

‘I believe the man to be a merchant from abroad,’ Sir Arthur was saying. ‘I would be grateful if you could tell me what he said.’

‘His name is Paolo, Paolo da Lucca, and he is indeed a merchant. He said nothing of note.’

Sir Arthur’s face became stern. ‘Ma demoiselle, I should like you to tell me what you know of him.’ The broad shoulders lifted. ‘Otherwise, what must I think but that you are hiding something?’

Briefly, Clare closed her eyes, but when she opened them Sir Arthur was still there. Watching. Judging. She scuffed a stone with the toe of her boot, and wished she were a convincing liar. ‘I am not hiding anything.’

‘Does this Paolo da Lucca know of Sir Geoffrey’s involvement with thieves?’

‘You are speaking of the relic?’ Clare asked, as it dawned on her that she might have misinterpreted the motives behind Sir Arthur’s questions. His questions had nothing to do with the fact that there had been slavers in Troyes—he suspected her of having dealings with outlaws!

‘Indeed.’ The dark eyes narrowed. ‘Was he threatening you?’

‘No, sir.’ Taking a deep breath, Clare lifted her eyes to his. ‘I...I have known Paolo for some months. He is a kind man and he was not threatening me.’

‘What did he say?’ The dark eyes were thoughtful. ‘I know Geoffrey was in touch with thieves.’

Clare felt herself frown. ‘Count Lucien swore he would keep that quiet. Sir, you must understand that Nicola can’t find out, she is so proud that her son was knighted—it would kill her if she learned of his fall from grace.’

‘Never fear, Count Lucien has been discreet. And, apart from last eve when I brought the subject up with him, this is the first time I have questioned him on the matter. The Count made a point of stressing your wishes that Geoffrey’s good name should not be tarnished.’

They were facing the tavern on the far side of the square. The Black Boar. It had a dubious reputation. One of the tavern girls was sitting on a bench outside, a bright yellow cloth over her knee. She was sewing, or pretending to. In reality she was displaying her charms, of which there were many. Her eyes sparkled, her smile was bold and her lips had been coloured in some way. The neck of her gown was subtly laced to reveal full breasts. She dimpled at Sir Arthur and deftly inched up her gown to display a slender ankle and a shapely calf.

‘Good morning, Sir Arthur.’

Sir Arthur grinned. ‘Good morning, Gabrielle.’

She knows him?

Gabrielle’s gaze washed over Clare. ‘Will we see you later, sir?’

He lifted a dark eyebrow, still grinning. Clare didn’t know where to look. Despite her shameful past, she was innocent. In truth, her flight from Apulia had been precipitated after her owner’s son, Sandro, had attempted to force himself on her. She shivered and stared at her hand, half-expecting to see it stained with Sandro’s blood. She could never act the whore, not for any man.

Sir Arthur cleared his throat, replaced Clare’s hand on his arm and steered her firmly past the tavern. ‘Ma demoiselle, I should like you to tell me what you know of the thieves. Count Henry is determined to run them to earth.’

Clare tipped back her head to meet that dark gaze, and was conscious of a faint stirring in her stomach. It wasn’t strong enough to be fear, but Count Henry’s Captain did make her nervous. Her mouth was dry.

‘I know next to nothing.’ Clare’s mind whirled as she wondered how much to tell him. She had best say as little as possible—enough to make him go away and leave her in peace. ‘Geoffrey kept things close, but I know he wanted to make amends. He was ashamed of what he had done.’

‘And so he should have been. It’s a disgrace that a knight should have dealings with thieves.’

Clare bit her lip. Sir Arthur was one of Geoffrey’s peers and she wanted him to understand what had driven Geoffrey to lose his honour. He had not done it lightly. ‘Count Lucien may have told you Geoffrey’s mother, Nicola, is ailing. Medicaments are costly.’

‘Money ran out?’

Clare nodded. ‘Geoffrey loved his mother, he wanted the best for her.’

Sir Arthur swore. ‘Damn it all, the lad borrowed money from me before, he could have done so again. I wouldn’t have refused him.’

‘He didn’t like being indebted.’

‘Pride?’ Sir Arthur sighed. ‘That rings true, Geoffrey hated admitting to any weakness.’

‘There’s nothing more I can tell you, sir,’ Clare said, looking pointedly back the way they had come. ‘If that is all, I should be getting back. I can’t leave Nicola for long.’ And if slavers are in town, I can’t risk being seen!

‘All in good time, ma demoiselle. I haven’t finished. It’s likely you know more than you realise. For example, when Geoffrey spoke of the thief, did he mention any names?’

Clare drew her head back. ‘Sir, I fail to see the point of this. I thought the thief had been killed? Count Lucien said he was murdered.’

Sir Arthur nodded. ‘So he was, but he was unlikely to have been working alone. Who killed that thief? Why did they kill him?’

Clare’s stomach knotted. She didn’t want to think about this, she had enough to worry about with how she was going to look after Nicola if the Veronese had come to Troyes. How was she going to get to market? The Veronese might see her! She glanced over her shoulder—the last thing she needed was to be drawn into Geoffrey’s troubles. Geoffrey was dead, for which she was deeply sorry. But so was his murderer.

‘In my view, justice was served when the thief was killed,’ she said, quietly.

‘And that’s enough? What if more people are hurt? Do you want that on your conscience?’

The determined glint in Sir Arthur’s brown eyes warned her that he was not going to let this rest. The good Captain suspected that she could help him and it was not going to be easy to dismiss him. There must be something I can tell him...

‘Geoffrey mentioned another man, but he gave me no name. Only...’

Sir Arthur was standing so close, Clare could practically count his eyelashes. They were long and dark, and when she looked into his eyes, her heart skipped a beat. The Captain of the Guardian Knights had beautiful eyes. In this light they were not as dark as she had first thought. The brown was flecked with grey.

‘Only...?’

‘It was something Geoffrey alluded to when he told me that he was going to make amends for what he had done.’

He looked sceptically at her. ‘You insist that Geoffrey intended to break with the thieves?’

Her chin went up. ‘Sir, I can see that you disbelieve me, but I swear it’s the truth.’

‘If so, it’s possible he was killed for trying to renege on his agreement,’ Sir Arthur said, slowly. ‘And not because he was barring his way to Countess Isobel, as Count Lucien suggests.’ He stared pensively down a shadowy alley. It was getting cold, a water trough was edged with ice. ‘It doesn’t tell us who murdered the thief, though. Or why.’

‘I’ve been wondering about that. Could he have been killed by another outlaw, angered that the relic had slipped from his grasp?’

‘He could have been.’ Sir Arthur folded his arms across his chest and looked questioningly at her. ‘You have something else to add...?’

‘It might not be of use, but Geoffrey did mention meeting someone in a cave.’

His gaze sharpened. ‘A cave? Where?’

‘I am sorry, sir, Geoffrey mentioned a cave. That is all.’

‘Pity.’ Shaking his head, Sir Arthur offered her his arm and they retraced their steps.

Soon they had reached the head of Clare’s street, where the tall, wooden houses leaned haphazardly one against the other. Crooked and humble. But home.

‘Ma demoiselle, I should be grateful if you would to inform me should you remember anything else.’

‘Yes, sir, of course.’ Clare smiled, but in truth she had no intention of seeing this man again. All she wanted was freedom to live her life in peace.

‘And if either you or Nicola need help, you mustn’t hesitate to send for me. Leave word at the garrison gate—’ He broke off, shaking his head. ‘Where did you say you were from?’

Clare’s heart missed a beat. The dark eyes might look kind, but she wasn’t going to admit to being a runaway slave. Men, as she had learned to her cost, reacted badly when they found out. Even the best of them tried to take advantage. And Sir Arthur, as that little exchange with the girl outside the Black Boar had proved, was no better than the rest. This was a man who enjoyed women.

Geoffrey had been different. Geoffrey, God rest him, had never tried to take advantage of her, which was why she had loved him. Geoffrey would have her loyalty till her dying day.

‘I spent many years abroad, sir. I do not rightly know where I was born.’ She gave him another bright smile. ‘It seems likely I am baseborn.’

That dark, unsettling gaze ran over her, lingering in a puzzled way on a wisp of hair winding waywardly out of her hood; studying her eyes, first the grey, then the green.

She gave a light laugh. ‘I certainly felt out of place on the ladies’ stand.’

‘Count Lucien invited you, you had every right to be there.’

His hand slid up her arm and his fingers tightened. A frisson of awareness ran down every nerve. Disturbing. Exciting. And that was beyond strange, since Clare hated men touching her. He gave her the most charming of bows.

‘I, for one, am glad to have met you. Although...’ he paused ‘...your features do seem familiar. I would swear we must have met before.’

‘Likely you saw me at Geoffrey’s funeral.’

‘I didn’t see your eyes and they are familiar...’

Clare shook her head and pulled free. ‘You must be mistaken.’ As she dipped into a swift curtsy, she saw Nell skipping into their lodgings. ‘There’s Nell, sir, I had best be going.’

‘Remember what I said. Send for me if you need assistance.’ He leaned towards her. ‘Send for me if you recall anything Geoffrey might have said.’

‘I won’t forget, sir.’ Twisting away, Clare hurried down the street.

The Captain of the Guardian Knights was altogether too disturbing. He saw too much. And if he thought she’d be leaving messages at the garrison gatehouse, he could think again. She wanted peace and quiet. Attention from the Captain of the Guardian Knights was the last thing she needed.

Chapter Three

The girl, Clare, lingered in Arthur’s mind as he strode back to Troyes Castle. Her image wouldn’t shift from his brain—a small, slight girl with auburn hair and mismatched eyes. Mismatch. Who was she? Why did he feel he was missing some vital connection? Why did he feel that he should be better able to place her?

Arthur found no answer, even though tendrils of auburn hair twined in and out of his thoughts as he went to the stables and called for his squire. That faintly accented, husky voice echoed in his mind. ‘Geoffrey mentioned a cave.’

A cave—there was a chalk cave not far from Troyes...

‘Ivo?’

‘Sir?’

‘Patrol. Saddle up. You’re coming with me.’

‘Yes, sir. Where are we going?’

‘I want to study the lie of the land around that cave to the south.’

‘Shall I fetch your chain mail?

‘I only need my sword, we shan’t be making a show of ourselves. This is unofficial. Sir Raphael took the regular patrol.’

Bright auburn tresses gleamed in the winter sun, invading Arthur’s every thought, as they trotted through the city gates. And not only her hair. Her eyes haunted him every step of the way. It was as though the fields and vineyards of Champagne were lost behind mist, the only reality was those eyes—one green, one grey. Mismatch.

He had seen those eyes before. Where?

No answer came while Arthur scoured the terrain about the cave. He was looking for tracks or burnt-out cooking fires. He found nothing of note but, oddly, his conviction strengthened. He had seen her before.

‘It will come,’ he muttered.

‘Sir?’

‘Ivo, have you noticed how the memory plays tricks? Sometimes when you are trying to recall something, it eludes you. And the moment you give up—’ he snapped his fingers ‘—the answer comes.’ Arthur felt himself flush. He must sound like a madman.

Ivo simply nodded sagely at him. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘It would be best if I put her out of my mind.’

‘Most likely, sir.’

* * *

None the less, Clare’s image had remained with him, accompanying him on the road that ran back to the city and into the stables. It had lingered at the back of his mind as he strode to the hall for his regular meeting with Count Henry. It even remained with him that evening as he pushed through the door of the Black Boar and Gabrielle swayed towards him, all bosom and big eyes.

‘Sir Arthur! What a pleasure to see you.’

Most irritating of all, Clare’s image did not leave him as he wound his arm round Gabrielle’s soft waist and leaned in to kiss her.

Mon Dieu! Why could he not remember?

* * *

The answer came the next day. Unfortunately, it came as Arthur was discussing the redeployment of his men with Count Henry in the solar of Troyes Castle.

The Comte was sitting behind an array of quills and ink-pots. He had been going through his accounts, and scrolls and parchment littered the worktable like autumn leaves. He nudged a stool in Arthur’s direction. ‘Take a seat, Sir Arthur.’

‘My thanks. Mon seigneur, it’s my belief a gang of outlaws are in hiding somewhere beyond the city walls,’ Arthur said, going straight to the point. ‘And with the Twelfth Night Joust behind us, Troyes is as quiet as it gets. We can expand the reach of our patrols—widen our search to the county boundaries.’

Count Henry looked narrowly at him. ‘You’ve heard something?’

Arthur shook his head. ‘Nothing reliable, my lord. A friend tells me that outlaws could be hiding out in a nearby cave.’

‘A friend?’

Arthur was reluctant to name Clare—she had made it clear she wanted nothing to do with this business. He couldn’t blame her, Geoffrey had been killed. Further, the lad’s death meant the women of her household had been left without a protector. ‘My friend values discretion.’

Count Henry nodded and picked up his quill. ‘I understand. You have enough men?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Very well. Let me know if you find anything.’

‘Of course.’ Arthur rose to leave, and checked as a name came crashing in on him. A name and a pair of eyes that mirrored Clare’s. ‘Count Myrrdin de Fontaine,’ he muttered. Mon Dieu! Could Clare be Count Myrrdin’s daughter? A by-blow, of course.

Count Henry fiddled with his quill. ‘Count Myrrdin? What of him? I haven’t seen him in years.’

Arthur shook his head. His gaze was fixed on Count Henry’s ink-pot, but he wasn’t seeing it. He was seeing those mismatched eyes. ‘It’s the eyes,’ he said.

‘The eyes?’ Count Henry frowned, then his brow cleared. ‘Ah, yes, I remember. Count Myrrdin has odd eyes. Blue and grey.’

‘Green and grey, actually, my lord.’

Count Henry twirled the quill between finger and thumb. ‘He was a very distinguished warrior in his day, although I’ve heard that he’s become something of a recluse. It’s years since he’s left Brittany. What brought him to mind?’

‘There’s a girl in Troyes—I saw her at the joust. She has his eyes.’

The quill went still and Count Henry leaned forwards, a line between his brows. ‘A girl? Are you certain she has Count Myrrdin’s eyes?’

‘She could be his baseborn daughter,’ Arthur said, his conviction strengthening with every moment. ‘I thought I’d met her before and took time to make the connection. But I hadn’t met her, I’d met her father. She’s Count Myrrdin’s daughter, I know it.’

‘How old is she?’

‘Lord, I’ve no idea. Eighteen? Nineteen?’

‘She can’t be Count Myrrdin’s get. He’s not known to be profligate with women. Since his wife died, well, the man might as well have taken Holy Orders, he’s chaste as a monk.’ The Count set the quill back in the ink-pot and leaned back. ‘I want to see this girl. Bring her here.’

Arthur hesitated. He was certain Clare wouldn’t want to be brought before Count Henry. ‘Mon seigneur, is that necessary? She might be embarrassed to have her illegitimacy noised abroad.’

Count Henry’s brow darkened. ‘What do you take me for? I’m not about to shame the girl, I want to help her. Before he turned hermit, Myrrdin de Fontaine was one of the most honourable knights in Christendom. If this girl is his daughter, illegitimate or not, he’d want to know. Where does she live?’

‘She shares lodgings in the town. In the merchant’s quarter.’

‘Bring her here. When I’ve seen her, I shall decide what’s best to do.’ Count Henry pulled one of the scrolls towards him and unrolled it. ‘Captain?’

‘Mon seigneur?’

‘Find Myrrdin’s daughter before you start ferreting about in those caves, eh?’

‘But, my lord, the outlaws...’

The Count sighed. ‘Sir Raphael can take a troop to the caves. You know the girl, you bring her here.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

* * *

Clare was walking back from the market with Nell, her basket over her arm. She had spent the day trying to convince herself that Paolo had been wrong about seeing slavers in Troyes, and had almost succeeded when she saw the two men standing under the eaves of the house next to Nicola’s.

Sight of them turned her guts to ice. Although Nell was still jigging along beside her, chattering nineteen to the dozen, it was as though the child had been struck dumb. Clare couldn’t hear her. She couldn’t hear anything except the blood rushing in her ears.

Ducking her head, she whipped round and affected a great interest in the carving on a nearby lintel. One of the men was unknown to her, but the other...the other...

I am going to be sick.

The other man was unquestionably Lorenzo da Verona, more commonly known as the Veronese. Clare hadn’t known he travelled as far from Apulia as this, but it made sense. Da Verona would cast his net wide to find slaves. The fact that it was forbidden to sell or own slaves in Champagne wouldn’t stop his evil business. Slaves could be taken from anywhere, as she herself knew. In Apulia where her master lived, Clare had crossed paths with slaves who had been captured in France, in Brittany, in the Aquitaine...

Slavery was a trade that knew no boundaries. Da Verona’s only concern was to turn a fat profit. Clare’s master—her former master—had bought many slaves from the man standing not twelve feet behind her, herself included. Clare had no memory of her early life. She only knew of da Verona’s involvement because one day, when her master had been buying more slaves from him, her mistress had informed her that she, too, had been bought from the Veronese.

Time seemed to slow. Da Verona mustn’t see her—he would seize her and return her to her master! She must leave Troyes today. Had she left it too late? Blessed Virgin, what would happen to Nicola? To Nell? How would they cope?

‘Clare, you’re not listening,’ Nell said, twitching at her skirts.

‘I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’ve just realised I’ve forgotten to buy salt. Be a love and carry the basket home, will you? I shall follow when I’ve bought the salt.’

Those men are talking about me, I know it. Lord knows how the Veronese found me, but somehow he knows where I live. There is no time. I must leave.

Clare had hoped to stay in Troyes long enough to ensure that Nell was cared for when Nicola died. For Nicola was dying, of that there was no doubt. Every day it was more of a struggle for her to leave her cot; every day she became more drawn, more grey. Nicola might have days left, she might have weeks, it was impossible to judge. Clare had wanted to stay with them until the end, she had wanted Nell to be able to live her old normal life for as long as possible.

‘I can come with you to buy salt,’ Nell said.

Blinking through a blur of tears, Clare handed Nell the basket. ‘Thank you, but that’s not necessary. Mama is waiting for these things. When you get home, I need you to start the soup for me.’ Conscious of the men at her back, Clare went down on her haunches, so as to meet Nell eye to eye. ‘Can you do that, sweetheart? Do you remember when we made barley soup?’

‘I remember.’

‘Do you think you can make it on your own?’

‘Yes!’

‘Good girl.’ Poor Nell. First she loses her brother and soon she will lose her mother. If truth be known, Clare had prayed for a few more weeks with Nicola and Nell. Living with them had been her only taste of family life and she was greedy for more. However, it would seem that God had other plans. She swallowed hard, blinked away the blur and managed a smile. ‘Off you go. Make a start on the soup. If I’m late, you can give Mama her supper. And...’ she paused ‘...this is important, sweetheart. If you get stuck with the recipe, if something happens that worries you, go straight to Aimée. Aimée will help you, she will always help you.’

Nell looked at her as though she had grown horns. ‘I know that, silly.’

Smile wobbling, Clare straightened and made a shooing gesture with her hands.

‘See you later,’ Nell said and skipped away.

Throat tight, Clare watched her go. Keeping her head down and her hood up, she walked swiftly past the two men and slipped into an alley between the houses. It was dank and shadowy, more of a gutter than an alley—the ground was soggy with moss. Her mind raced as she hurried along. She knew exactly what she must do.

She had money left over from market, Nicola would not begrudge her it. First she would find a scribe and get a note to Sir Arthur. He would see that Nicola and Nell were safe. Then she would buy bread and then she would leave.

What she didn’t know was where she would go. It was January, nights were bone-achingly cold, but there was one blessing—she was wearing her cloak.

* * *

Arthur was crossing the yard in front of the garrison gatehouse when a sentry hailed him. ‘Captain Ferrer, there’s a message for you.’ The sentry went into the guardhouse and emerged with a scrap of vellum.

‘My thanks.’ Arthur frowned at the vellum. He’d told Clare to send word if she needed help, but not for one moment had he thought she would heed him. Yet he could think of no one else who would contact him in this way. ‘Who brought this, did you see them?’

‘Local scribe, sir. Pierre Chenay.’

Arthur unrolled the scroll. It was the briefest of letters, a few lines, no more. Glancing at the bottom, he saw that it had indeed been sent by Clare. The letter began formally, it was obvious it had been penned by a scribe, though the language was stripped of the traditional flowery sentiments. She wouldn’t have had money for those...

Most honoured knight,

You were kind to Nell at the Twelfth Night Joust and I thank you for it. I hope to impose further upon your kindness. I am leaving Troyes. As you are aware, Nell’s mother is ailing. I think she will soon be leaving this world for a higher place. The Count and Countess d’Aveyron have most graciously helped Nicola and Nell in the past, and I am writing to ask that you will inform them that I can no longer care for them. Count Lucien and Countess Isobel will see to their needs, I know.

My heartfelt thanks,

With all good wishes,

Your servant, Clare

At the bottom, next to where the scribe had written her name, there was an awkwardly formed cross and a large ink blot. She wouldn’t be used to holding a quill.

Stupid woman, what was she doing leaving town when Geoffrey’s family had such need of her? Had the outlaws approached her? Had she been bullied into leaving?

Crushing the message into a ball, Arthur shoved it in his pouch. There was a cold lump in his belly.

‘When did this arrive?’

‘Not half an hour since, Captain.’

Arthur forced himself to relax. Half an hour. She’d be on foot—she couldn’t have got far in half an hour and he’d be able to track her, whichever road she’d taken. He was on the point of retracing his steps to inform Count Henry of what had happened when it occurred to him she might not yet have left her lodgings.

* * *

Arthur raised his hand to knock at the door. Inside, a child was crying. Nell. Lord. He knocked hard and the crying cut off. A bolt squealed and the door opened. Nell’s face, puffy with tears, appeared in the crack.

‘Sir Arthur!’ Sniffling, Nell wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

‘Holà, Nell.’ The child’s woebegone face told him that Clare had already left, but he had to ask. ‘May I speak to Clare?’

‘She’s not here.’ Nell’s eyes filled. ‘Mama says she’s gone away. Mama says—’

‘Nell?’ a faint voice cut in. ‘Let Sir Arthur enter, if you please.’

Arthur bowed his head under the lintel and stepped into the room. It had been a while since he’d set foot in lodgings as basic as this. Smoke from a fire at the back filled the low-ceilinged room with smoke. A kettle sat on the hearth and a small clay pot lay slightly askew among the embers, steaming gently. Clothes were drying on a crooked clothes-rack.

Nell’s sick mother, Nicola, lay on a cot by the fire. And she did look sick. The light was poor, but not so poor that Arthur couldn’t see that her eyes had sunk deep into their sockets. The skin over her cheekbones was wafer-thin.

Age-spotted hands plucked at the blankets. ‘Sir Arthur Ferrer?’

‘At your service, ma dame. As you doubtless heard, I am looking for Clare.’

Nicola’s lip trembled. ‘I am afraid you have missed her. She has...moved away.’

Nell jumped into his line of vision, fists clenched. ‘No, she hasn’t! She’s gone for salt.’ A small hand batted his. ‘Sir Arthur, Clare told me she was going to buy salt.’

Arthur looked at Nicola. He wasn’t used to dealing with children and, sweet though this one was, he was helpless in the face of her tears.

‘We have plenty of salt, sir,’ Nicola said, gesturing at a pot by the fire. ‘Clare’s not coming back.’

Tiny fingers curled into his tunic. ‘She is! She is coming back! She forgot we had salt. She’ll be back soon, I know it.’

‘Nell,’ Nicola’s voice, though weak, held a warning. ‘Shouldn’t you be watching our soup?’

The small fingers uncurled and, sniffing, the child went to the fire.

‘I knew this time would come, sir,’ Nicola said. ‘I hoped she would stay, but in my heart I knew she would leave us.’

Nell had found a wooden spoon. Arthur watched her stirring. ‘Was Clare threatened, do you know?’ he asked quietly. Thanks to Geoffrey’s change of heart, a priceless relic had slipped out of the thieves’ hands. It was more than likely they bore a grudge. Had they demanded recompense? Were they taking their anger out on Clare?

‘Threatened? Why should anyone threaten Clare?’ Nicola gazed thoughtfully into the fire. ‘I suppose there could have been something. Clare kept her thoughts to herself much of the time. When Geoffrey brought her here, a scrawny waif whom he found on the road to Ravenshold, I had my doubts.’

Arthur stared. ‘Sir Geoffrey found her on the road?’

‘Yes, sir. She had nowhere to go, so he brought her here. My Geoffrey offered her board and keep in return for looking after us.’ Nicola’s eyes were glassy with tears, her voice was a thread. ‘She was a tower of strength when Geoffrey died, but more than that, I have grown fond of her. She stayed longer than I dared hope.’

‘Do you know where she’s gone?’

‘No, sir. Will you...’ her expression brightened ‘...will you try to find her?’

Arthur hesitated. ‘I shall try, but I am sworn to serve Count Henry.’ He moved to the door.

‘You are Captain of the Guardian Knights and must follow the Count’s orders?’

‘I must.’

‘Perhaps, sir, if you asked for Count Henry’s permission...?’

Arthur reached for the door latch. Mon Dieu, the last thing he wanted to do was to leave Troyes, particularly to chase after a chance-met girl, even one who might be Count Myrrdin’s by-blow. It was an honour to be Captain of Count Henry’s Guardians—an honour that had been hard won. Being Captain of the Guardians was no sinecure. Several knights were jostling to take his place, young Raphael of Reims to name but one. If Arthur were to leave Troyes, even with the Count’s blessing, the post of Captain of the Guardians might be lost to him for ever.

However, it wasn’t safe for a vulnerable young woman to be wandering the highways without protection. Never mind that it was midwinter, there were rogues everywhere, anything could happen. A fist formed in his stomach. She must be found.

‘That will depend on Count Henry, ma dame. Rest assured, I shall inform him of Clare’s disappearance. I shall also inform Lord d’Aveyron.’

Nicola’s head came up in a way that reminded Arthur of her son. ‘Thank you, sir, but there’s no need to speak to Lord d’Aveyron.’

Clare had mentioned that Nicola was unaware of the trouble Geoffrey had embroiled himself in before his death. Was it wise to leave her in ignorance? If, as he suspected, Clare had been bullied out of Troyes by a gang of outlaws—might they take their revenge out on Nicola and the child? He must speak with Count Henry again.

In the meantime, he didn’t want to worry Nicola more than was necessary. He smiled. ‘Ma dame, in my judgement Count Lucien would wish to know that Clare has left Troyes. He was Geoffrey’s liege lord and he has your welfare at heart. I will also send a manservant from the castle to assist you. Good day.’

Nicola looked at him before sinking back into her pillows—the exchange had exhausted her. ‘Thank you, Sir Arthur. Good day.’

* * *

Back at Troyes Castle, Count Henry admitted him at once. During Arthur’s absence, the parchments and scrolls seemed to have trebled in number.

‘Well?’ Count Henry demanded, setting his quill aside and flexing inky fingers. He looked past Arthur and scowled at the empty doorway. ‘Where is she?’

‘Mon seigneur, I am afraid I missed her, she has left Troyes.’ Arthur delved in his pouch for the letter. ‘This was waiting for me at the gatehouse.’

Count Henry skimmed the message before handing it back. ‘Pity. I wonder where she went. Any ideas?’

‘No, my lord. I have spoken to the woman she shares lodgings with, but she wasn’t able to help.’

‘I take it she—?’

‘Her name is Clare.’

Count Henry’s gaze sharpened. ‘Clare. I assume Clare is ignorant of the identity of her possible sire?’

‘I believe she is, my lord.’

Count Henry looked thoughtfully at the solar window, before waving Arthur to the stool. ‘Sit, man, for heaven’s sake. Do you really believe this woman could be Myrrdin’s daughter?’

‘My lord, I’d be uneasy swearing to it. All I can say is that only once have I seen eyes like that and they belonged to Count Myrrdin de Fontaine. I’d like your permission to find her and bring her back to Troyes. She cannot be safe wandering abroad.’

Count Henry picked up a fresh quill and began toying with it. Already his thoughts were straying back to his account books. ‘Very well, you may find her, she can’t have got far.’

Arthur rose. ‘Shall I bring her to meet you?’

‘Heavens, no, I’ve had second thoughts on that score. What would I do with the girl? When you find her, you can take her straight to Count Myrrdin in Brittany.’

Take her straight to Count Myrrdin in Brittany?

Arthur felt his jaw drop. ‘Take her to Fontaine? But, my lord—’

‘Myrrdin will know if she’s his daughter, he can decide what’s to be done with her.’ Count Henry picked up a knife and started trimming the quill.

Arthur’s guts were cold. ‘My lord?’

‘There’s a problem, Captain?’

‘This...’ Arthur cleared his throat ‘...this commission may take some weeks to complete.’

‘So?’

‘Are the Guardians to go uncaptained for all that time? Mon seigneur, I urge you to reconsider. Wouldn’t it be better to bring her here, when I find her? We might then send word to Fontaine.’

Count Henry scowled at his quill, tossed it aside and selected another. ‘No, no, you are my best man—who better to escort Myrrdin’s daughter to Fontaine? Sir Raphael can stand in as Captain of the Guardians until your return. The boy shows promise, it will do him good to be given real responsibility.’

Arthur ground his teeth together. Not Raphael, dear God, not Raphael. Sir Raphael de Reims was everything Arthur would never be—the younger son of an old and ancient line. Arthur Ferrer, as everyone in Troyes knew, had not a drop of noble blood flowing in his veins.

Arthur had hoped that Count Henry valued a man for his deeds and not his ancestry. I am the son of an armourer. Illegitimate. Raphael is the son of a count. What chance do I have against the son of a count? Is this Count Henry’s way of telling me I have lost my captaincy?

Count Henry scrawled on a piece of vellum and handed it to him. ‘Take this to the treasury. You will be given money to cover your expenses. God speed, Captain.’ He glanced at the window. ‘It’ll be dusk before we know it. You had best hurry, if you intend to catch up with her tonight.’

Chapter Four

Light was fading by the time Arthur was ready to leave. He had explained the circumstances to his squire, none the less, the lad was startled by their haste of their departure.

‘We’re setting out at this hour?’ Ivo asked. ‘Before supper?’

‘We’ll find an inn later,’ Arthur said, yanking so hard on the girth of his saddle that Steel shifted and stamped in his stall.

He was in a dark mood. Why the devil had Clare put him in the position of having to chase after her? It was plain that something must have happened to make her run off and naturally he was sorry for it, but it would have been so much easier if she had just come to him for help, as he had suggested. Worse, he was disappointed with Count Henry for finding a replacement Captain so easily. ‘Raphael, Raphael,’ he muttered. ‘Mon Dieu.’ The Count hadn’t even needed to think about it, he had immediately known who he would pick. It was almost as though he had been planning it.

The old doubts rushed back. It is because I am low-born. Count Henry seems fair and just, but when it comes to promotion he is more likely to advance someone of his own class than an illegitimate knight from the lower orders.

Ivo was leading one of Count Henry’s Castilian ponies, a black mare, into the yard. The Count was insistent they took her with them, so that Count Myrrdin’s daughter, if such she was, would have her own mount. In Arthur’s view the mare would have a wasted journey. It was unlikely that the girl would be able to ride.

Mon Dieu, he couldn’t believe it—he was to ride to Brittany. In January. As the escort of a girl who in all likelihood hadn’t so much as sat on a horse, never mind ridden one...

‘Ivo?’

‘Sir?’

‘You’ve said your farewells to your mother?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘She understands you may be away for some weeks? When we find this woman, we must take her to Fontaine.’

Ivo’s eyes glowed. ‘Yes, sir.’

To Ivo this commission was an adventure. Arthur wished he felt the same.

They left Troyes by the Paris gate. Arthur had already discovered from one of the sentries on the city wall that someone answering Clare’s description had been taken up by a cloth merchant anxious to catch the tail end of the Lagny Fair. She had been seen sitting in the back of a cart on a bale of cloth. Wretched woman.

Arthur urged Steel into a trot. ‘We should catch up with her by nightfall. I reckon they’re heading for the Stork.’ Reaching into his saddlebag, he found a chunk of bread. ‘Here, if you’re starving, you’d best have this.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

The miserable, grey evening did nothing to improve Arthur’s mood. A persistent drizzle set in, and they reached the Stork a little later than he had predicted. Arthur’s stomach was growling; and despite his fur-lined cloak, his clothes were sticking, cold and clammy, to his skin. Doubtless his squire felt equally miserable. Wretched woman. If it weren’t for her, he and Ivo would be happily ensconced by the fire in the great hall, eating their supper.

Torches were sputtering in the yard of the Stork. The ground was muddy and rutted by cartwheels, and puddles were spotted with raindrops. Light flickered under the inn door, a small but welcome sign of life.

‘Sir...’ Ivo pointed ‘...is that the lady?’

In a shed next to the stable, a large wagon was covered in sailcloth and Clare was sitting on a heap of straw next to it. She made a forlorn figure. If she had set out with a veil, she had lost it en route. Her auburn hair clung like dark weed to her skull and she was combing through it with her fingers. Her nose was pink. A threadbare cloak hung limply on a nearby hook—both Clare and the cloak looked as damp as he. Despite his ill temper, Arthur’s heart went out to her.

‘That’s the lady. Find a stall for the horses, would you? Get the grooms to assist, and then order supper for three.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Dismounting, Arthur left Ivo to deal with the horses. As he approached, those mismatched eyes widened.

She jumped to her feet. ‘Sir Arthur!’

‘Good evening, ma demoiselle.’

Pushing her hair over her shoulder, she gave him a troubled look. ‘Why are you here?’

Arthur folded his arms. ‘I am come to find you.’

She shifted back a pace. ‘Why?’

‘Orders from Count Henry.’ He gave her a brief bow and looked deep into those mismatched eyes. ‘I am to escort you to the man we believe to be your father.’

She went white. ‘M-my father?’

Arthur waited. He was interested to hear what she said if he did not prompt her.

‘My father?’ Mouth working, she took that step back towards him. ‘Sir, since I’ve already told you that I don’t know where I was born and that I suspect I am baseborn, you must be making fun of me. I do not know my father. And he does not know me.’

‘I believe I have worked out who he might be—’

‘Sir?’

She seemed to stop breathing. Had this girl been Geoffrey’s lover? Arthur longed to know. Those unusual eyes were very expressive and the hunger with which she was watching him was curiously moving. She looked wary, almost hopeful. It came to him that she was afraid. She wasn’t used to feeling hopeful and it frightened her.

‘It’s my belief your father is a powerful and wealthy Breton nobleman. His name is Count Myrrdin de Fontaine.’

Clare looked blankly at him, as though she had never heard of Count Myrrdin de Fontaine which, given that Count Myrrdin had been one of the leading noblemen in Brittany, was passing strange.

‘You’ve not heard of Count Myrrdin?’

Slowly, she shook her head. ‘No, sir.’ She glanced away. ‘As I mentioned before, I have spent many years abroad. Where is Fontaine again?’

‘It’s many miles to the west of here, in the Duchy of Brittany. Count Myrrdin has largely retired from the world, but in his day he was known as a man of great honour.’ He gentled his tone. ‘I do not think he would reject you.’

‘Sir Arthur, most men would find an illegitimate daughter a great embarrassment, they would be ashamed. What makes you so certain Count Myrrdin will accept me?’

‘He has been a widower for some years. He has a strong sense of right and wrong, and if you are his child, he would want to know of it. Count Henry agrees with me, which is why he has given me this commission. Incidentally, you might like to know that Count Myrrdin has another daughter.’

‘I assume she is legitimate.’

‘Yes, and thanks to her marriage to the Comte des Iles, she is already a countess—the Countess Francesca des Iles.’

‘You are certain Count Myrrdin is my father?’

Reaching out, Arthur took her by the shoulders. Even though his touch was light, she strained away from him. He frowned and gently turned her to face the hissing torches. ‘It’s your eyes,’ he murmured, looking into them. Truly they were fascinating—the green one had grey and silver flecks in it, and the grey one had black speckles near the pupil. ‘You have one green and one grey, exactly like Count Myrrdin. It’s so unusual. You’re his daughter, I know it.’

Long eyelashes lowered, she shifted and Arthur released her. The instant he did, she edged away. It was like a dance. She came near, she edged back, she came near...

She fears men.

Arthur jerked his head towards the inn. ‘What’s the food like in there?’

‘I couldn’t say.’

‘You haven’t eaten?’

Her eyes wouldn’t meet his. ‘Not yet, sir.’

Arthur found himself scowling at the cloak on the hook behind her. ‘You were planning to eat tonight?’

‘I...I, yes, of course. I shall eat later.’

She was lying. Glad that he’d asked Ivo to order food for three, Arthur’s gaze shifted to the cart and the pile of straw. ‘You were going to sleep out here. Lord, woman, that’s begging for trouble. Come along, I am buying your supper.’

‘Oh, no, sir, I couldn’t.’

He reached past her, ignored the way she shied away from him, and lifted her cloak from the peg. It was pathetically light. It would be useless at keeping out rain and cold. ‘Of course you can.’ With a grin he added, ‘Particularly since Count Henry will be paying for it.’

She hung back. ‘Sir Arthur, I can’t. You don’t understand, I’ve promised to rest here. I’m guarding the cart tonight.’

‘You? Guarding the cart?’

‘The merchant wanted to charge me when I asked for a ride.’ She shrugged. ‘I haven’t much money, and when I explained, he said he’d take me if I watched over his merchandise.’

‘All night?’

‘Yes. He refused to take me otherwise.’

Arthur swore. ‘We’ll see about that.’ Gripping her firmly by the elbow, he steered her across the wheel-rutted yard and into the inn.

Inside, Sir Arthur turned to Clare. ‘Where is this merchant? What is his name?’

The inn was ill lit, smoky and crowded, but the merchant’s son was a lanky youth with a red crest of hair, which made him and his father easy to see. She pointed. ‘He’s at the table by the serving hatch—the one in the russet tunic. He’s called Gilbert de Paris.’

Arthur strode straight over. ‘Gilbert? Gilbert de Paris?’

The merchant looked Arthur up and down, his gaze lingering for a moment on his sword. ‘Sir?’

‘If you want someone to guard your cart overnight, you’d best make new arrangements. This lady is no longer in a position to help you. And even if she were, it’s shameful to take advantage of a woman forced to travel alone.’

The merchant looked dourly at Clare, grunted and elbowed his son. ‘Renan?’

The boy grimaced. ‘Father?’

‘Take your supper outside, you’re watchman tonight.’

The red-haired boy pushed to his feet and Clare held back a sigh. It was a relief to be out of the wet. She had been frozen in the barn.

Sir Arthur gestured her to a table a few feet from the fire and she chose a bench in the shadow of a large oak beam. She preferred not to be in full view of other customers. She preferred not to be noticed. It was an old habit and it was hard to break.

He was looking at her damp hair. ‘Wouldn’t you rather sit nearer the fire?’

‘I am fine here, thank you.’

She remained in the shadows, grateful simply to be in the warmth. Flames flowered in the fire as Sir Arthur hung up her cloak and joined a boy—presumably his squire—by the serving hatch. She wriggled her fingers. They were beginning to tingle as the heat reached them. Her mind was darting back and forth like a shuttle on a loom.

Sir Arthur thinks my father is a count! It couldn’t be true. And yet...if it was...

Was it possible that her eyes, the cursed eyes that brought so much unwanted attention wherever she went, had come down to her through her father?

My father is a Breton count! It seemed so unlikely. And yet...

It was possible. For as long as she could remember, Clare had wondered about her parents. In the end, she had come to the view that her parents couldn’t have been married. Years ago, she had concluded that her father must have abandoned her mother, leaving her to give birth alone. It was common enough. And after that, anything might have happened—her mother might have died, or she might have abandoned her baby. And then, by some tortuous means which Clare had never hoped to unravel, she had ended up enslaved. Her memory began in her master’s house in Apulia, a place which by any reckoning was a world away from Brittany. She remembered nothing before then.

And here was Sir Arthur telling her she might be the daughter of a Breton count...

Quietly, she hugged herself. For the first time, she was on the brink of learning the truth of her background. She had somewhere to go and reason to hope that she might be able to stop looking over her shoulder. Was she going home at last?

Of course, there was much to overcome. What would her father think of her? Sir Arthur was clearly so honourable he couldn’t imagine a man refusing to acknowledge his daughter. Clare’s experiences had taught her otherwise—Count Myrrdin de Fontaine could easily reject her. Not to mention that his true-born daughter—this Countess Francesca—might resent the appearance of an illegitimate sister. Countess Francesca might hate her.

Her path was strewn with obstacles, yet, for the first time in an age, Clare had hope and somewhere to go.

Sweet Virgin, let Count Myrrdin be my father. Let him acknowledge me.

Sir Arthur was making his way back through the tables, bearing a jug of wine and some clay cups. As he took a seat on the bench opposite, he nodded briefly at her. Filling a cup, he slid it towards her.

‘Thank you, sir.’

Sir Arthur was good-looking in the rough-hewn way of the warrior. Nell’s knight. His nose had a slight kink in it, likely it had been broken at some joust. His brown eyes were striking, dark and penetrating. Though Clare hardly knew him, she had already seen kindness in those eyes. Kindness was a rare quality, particularly in a knight. He had handled Nell with great tact when she had offered him her favour—a lesser man might have mocked the child.

This evening, Sir Arthur’s hair was ruffled from his ride, thick glossy strands caught the light. His mouth—Clare’s gaze skated past when she found herself staring at it—was nicely shaped, even if at the moment it was unsmiling. A haze of stubble darkened a square jaw. If she were to choose one word to sum him up, it would be the word strong. Except it didn’t do him justice. He was so tall, so large—the width of his shoulders... Sitting opposite him, Clare felt tiny.

Sir Arthur was Captain of Count Henry’s Guardian Knights and it was incredible to think that for the next few days he would be her escort. Saints, she had a knight as her escort! How strange life was. For years she had needed help and lately two knights had ridden to her rescue. First her Good Samaritan Geoffrey, and now Arthur. Sir Arthur, she corrected herself. Of course, Geoffrey had turned out to be less than perfect, but Sir Arthur—covertly she studied him—Sir Arthur seemed to be cut from different cloth.

He tossed back his wine and poured another. Still unsmiling.

He is displeased. Count Henry has asked him to be my escort and he resents it.

The thought was upsetting. Did Sir Arthur think it beneath him to have to guard a girl who might be Count Myrrdin’s by-blow? She dreaded to think how he would react should he discover that she was a runaway slave from Apulia. ‘Sir?’

The dark eyes turned to her, and her stomach swooped. His rough-hewn looks were dangerously appealing and she was reluctant for him to know it.

‘How long will it take for us to reach Fontaine, sir?’

He grimaced. ‘This is the worst time of year for travelling, so it’s hard to be precise, much will depend on the weather. But I would imagine it will take several days.’

‘Several days?’

‘Three weeks. Maybe even a month.’ An eyebrow lifted. ‘If you can ride, it won’t take as long.’

Clare bit her lip. ‘I don’t ride, sir.’

‘I didn’t think you would, but Count Henry has lent you a Castilian pony from his stables. If you’re willing to learn, you may try her out tomorrow. Otherwise, you’ll have to ride pillion with me.’

His tone was so brusque it left her in no doubt that if that were to happen, he would be most disgruntled. ‘Very well, sir, I will try the pony tomorrow. Sir Arthur?’

‘Hmm?’

‘You would rather have remained in Troyes? It displeases you to take me to Brittany?’

He toyed with his wine cup. ‘I have duties in Troyes.’ He shrugged. ‘However, my liege lord has commanded me to take you to Brittany and I must obey.’

Her heart sank—there was no doubt, he misliked having to escort her to Fontaine. Was it because she was baseborn? Or was there more to it than that?

Beneath the table, her hands balled into fists. This man had been kind to her. And his diligence in looking for her after she had sent him that letter had been ill rewarded—he’d been given a commission he resented. ‘I am sorry you have been inconvenienced.’

He glanced pointedly at her damp hair. ‘It’s not the best time of the year to be on the roads, as you have already discovered. Hopefully, we will complete the journey in good time.’

He stared into the fire, and a small silence fell.

Clare sighed. It was a pity he viewed her as a nuisance, but there was little she could do about it. And she was bursting with questions. She unballed her fists and reached for her wine cup. ‘Sir?’

‘Ma demoiselle?’

‘I will be quiet if you wish it, but there is much I would ask you...’

‘Please...’ he gestured at her to continue ‘...I am at your disposal.’

‘Sir, you said that Count Myrrdin is a widower. When did his wife die?’

‘I am not certain, but I believe she died giving birth to their daughter, Countess Francesca.’

Clare leaned forwards. ‘If I am acknowledged, Countess Francesca will be my half-sister. How long has she been married?’

‘I believe she married a couple of years ago.’

‘To the Count of the Isles?’

‘He is also known as Tristan le Beau.’

Grasping her wine cup, Clare absorbed this. Tristan le Beau—Tristan the Handsome. Another great lord whose name she was clearly meant to recognise. It meant nothing to her. ‘And like my father he is a count,’ she murmured. ‘A Breton count?’

‘Count Tristan has lands in Brittany and in the Aquitaine.’

So, if Sir Arthur was correct, she was to have a sister—a countess!—with lands in Brittany and the Aquitaine. She opened her mouth to ask more, but the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the young lad whom Clare had seen earlier. He turned out to be Sir Arthur’s squire, Ivo. By the time introductions had been made, a serving boy had appeared. Steaming bowls of mutton stew and several slices of wheat bread were placed in front of them.

Clare’s mouth watered. She’d missed the noonday meal, and couldn’t recall when she’d last eaten meat. Her stomach growled.

‘I’m starved,’ Ivo said, reaching for his spoon.

Murmuring agreement, Clare bent over her stew. The questions were piling up, but she was reluctant to discuss her altered circumstances in front of Ivo. One last, practical question sprang to mind and it refused to go away.

Sir Arthur, where will I be sleeping tonight?

* * *

With his belly full and his bones warmed through, Arthur set down his spoon. Clare had looked half-dead when he had found her, a pale, bedraggled waif with her hair plastered against her head. No longer. Colour was creeping back into her cheeks and tight curls were springing up about her face, bright as copper. She had emptied her bowl and was mopping up the last drops with a chunk of bread.

‘More?’ he asked, quietly.

‘Thank you, no.’ She leaned back with a sigh. ‘It makes a welcome change to eat something I have not cooked.’

Her features were finely drawn. She was pretty, in an elfin sort of way. Arthur tried to recall Count Myrrdin’s face, but it had been years since he had seen him. The Count’s eyes were the only thing he could recall with any clarity. Arthur had a dim memory of a bluff, heavyset man. The elfin, other-worldly looks and bright hair must come from her mother.

Thankfully, she didn’t put on airs and graces. She was graceful, but not haughty. Arthur couldn’t abide haughty women. She was plucky, too, perhaps too much for her own good.

‘What made you leave Troyes in such haste, ma demoiselle? Why didn’t you come directly to me? I told you I was willing to help.’

Those mismatched eyes flickered towards him before settling on the fire. ‘No time,’ she muttered. ‘Matters became urgent.’

‘Was it something to do with outlaws? With thieves?’

She hesitated. ‘Outlaws...yes, it was something to do with outlaws.’

Arthur leaned back to study her. Something didn’t ring true. Why did she feel threatened so many weeks after Geoffrey’s death? ‘You’ve been living openly with Nicola for some months. I fail to see why matters should suddenly become so urgent that you are forced to leave without your belongings.’

‘There wasn’t much to leave behind.’

He held her with his eyes. ‘You left two distressed friends behind, friends who would have liked to bid you farewell. Which reminds me...’ Arthur opened his purse, and counted out some silver that Geoffrey’s mother had pressed on him. ‘This is from Nicola. Before setting out, I went to tell her I was going after you and she asked me to give it to you.’

‘She shouldn’t have done that.’ Clare’s voice was thick as she stared at the coins. ‘She has barely enough as it is.’

‘She told me that this was Geoffrey’s and that he would have wanted you to have it.’

She blinked rapidly. ‘Nicola should have kept it.’

Arthur tried to catch those mismatched eyes. He was certain there was more to this than Geoffrey’s involvement with thieves. ‘Clare?’

‘Sir?’

‘What are you hiding?’

Fiercely, she shook her head. Bright curls swirled like a cloud about her face. ‘Nothing, sir. Nothing.’

Arthur knew a lie when he heard one. He held down a sigh. It was plain her life had been troubled, likely she had many demons. In time, she might learn to trust him. For the moment, however, his best course was simply to follow orders. His task was to deliver her safely to Count Myrrdin. And if, when they reached Fontaine, she had not opened up to him, he would simply have to cut his losses and return to Troyes. Count Myrrdin could deal with her demons.

My task is to take this woman to Count Myrrdin. Nothing more.

The sooner he got her to Fontaine, the sooner he could return. Arthur had won his position as Captain of the Guard thanks to Count Lucien’s recommendation, a recommendation earned through years of service. He refused to be ousted by the likes of Raphael de Reims.

Clare’s face was averted. Arthur was uneasily aware he had yet to broach the matter of their sleeping quarters to her. Noble blood might run in her veins, but thankfully this was no spoilt madam—he couldn’t see her demanding a maid or a feather bed. However, a blind man could see she mistrusted men. How was she going to react when he told her they would be passing the night in the sleeping loft with everyone else?

‘Ma demoiselle, about our sleeping arrangements...’

She stiffened. ‘Sir?’

‘You understand that you shall be sleeping in common with other travellers?’ At her nod, he let out a breath. ‘I have secured the last of the spaces in the loft. It will be cramped up there, but I thought you would feel safer.’ He gestured about him. ‘You could bed down in here, but there will be constant traffic.’ He grimaced. ‘And more draughts.’

‘Thank you, sir, I should prefer the loft. Will you be sleeping in the loft, too?’

‘If it pleases you. Ivo and I should be happy to guard your sleep, but if our presence troubles you, we can remain here.’

‘There’s no need for that, I will feel safer with you nearby. I...’ she flushed ‘...I have never slept in an inn before.’

It was a remark which, when uttered in that husky, lightly accented voice, had Arthur wondering anew about her past. He had made a few hasty enquiries at the barracks, but no one knew anything about her before she began sharing lodgings with Nicola. Clare’s eyes told him all he needed to know about her ancestry, but what kind of a life had she lived between her birth and the time she moved in with Geoffrey’s mother? It was none of his business. Gaining her trust, however, was. Thankfully, she seemed to trust him, at least enough to accept his protection in the common sleeping chamber.

‘Sir...?’ She twisted her hands together.

‘Yes?’

‘I have no bedding.’

‘There’s no need to trouble about that, I told Ivo to bring an extra bedroll.’ Arthur got to his feet. ‘We’ll be up at cockcrow. Permit me to escort you upstairs.’

‘Thank you, sir, you are very kind.’

Arthur was pleasantly surprised when she allowed him to take her hand and lead her to the stairway. It was a small hand, and though it was fine-boned, it was definitely not the hand of a lady. The skin was roughened with work and slightly chapped. The impulse to rub his thumb over the back of her fingers came from nowhere. He kept it in check.

‘I am sorry to put you to this trouble, sir. I realise it is a great inconvenience for you to take me to Count Myrrdin.’

‘It is no inconvenience, ma demoiselle.’ And, as he caught a shy, elfin smile, Arthur almost believed it.

* * *

The noises in the sleeping loft were different to the noises Clare had grown used to in Troyes. More unnerving. The other guests took an age to settle. No sooner had everyone quietened down, when someone got up and fumbled through the flickering half-light towards the stairs. The privies were outside and the wooden steps groaned with the to-ings and fro-ings. A baby whimpered and snuffled; a woman muttered to her husband.

Lying next to the wall, Clare felt safe enough to have her back to the room. With Sir Arthur’s squire, Ivo, sleeping at her feet like a guard dog and Sir Arthur bedding down between her and the other travellers, it would have been hard not to feel safe. It was reassuring having the knight’s large body so close. My knight. Clare was surprised with herself for thinking this way—after what had happened with Sandro in Apulia, she had never imagined she’d trust a man she hardly knew. Particularly one who, as she had discovered when walking with Sir Arthur past the Black Boar in Troyes, enjoyed his women.

Sir Arthur was not just any stranger, that must account for it. Geoffrey had spoken highly of him, making especial mention of his loyalty to Count Lucien under trying circumstances. Exactly what those trying circumstance had been, Clare had never discovered, but the fact was that Count Henry was not the only great lord to trust Arthur with high office.

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