Unveiling Lady Clare

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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.