Читать книгу Unveiling Lady Clare - Carol Townend, Carol Townend - Страница 10

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.