Читать книгу Unveiling Lady Clare - Carol Townend, Carol Townend - Страница 12

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.