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‘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?’
