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‘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.
