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‘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.
