Unveiling Lady Clare - Carol Townend

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you. Good day.’

      Nicola looked at him before sinking back into her pillows—the exchange had exhausted her. ‘Thank you, Sir Arthur. Good day.’

      * * *

      Back at Troyes Castle, Count Henry admitted him at once. During Arthur’s absence, the parchments and scrolls seemed to have trebled in number.

      ‘Well?’ Count Henry demanded, setting his quill aside and flexing inky fingers. He looked past Arthur and scowled at the empty doorway. ‘Where is she?’

      ‘Mon seigneur, I am afraid I missed her, she has left Troyes.’ Arthur delved in his pouch for the letter. ‘This was waiting for me at the gatehouse.’

      Count Henry skimmed the message before handing it back. ‘Pity. I wonder where she went. Any ideas?’

      ‘No, my lord. I have spoken to the woman she shares lodgings with, but she wasn’t able to help.’

      ‘I take it she—?’

      ‘Her name is Clare.’

      Count Henry’s gaze sharpened. ‘Clare. I assume Clare is ignorant of the identity of her possible sire?’

      ‘I believe she is, my lord.’

      Count Henry looked thoughtfully at the solar window, before waving Arthur to the stool. ‘Sit, man, for heaven’s sake. Do you really believe this woman could be Myrrdin’s daughter?’

      ‘My lord, I’d be uneasy swearing to it. All I can say is that only once have I seen eyes like that and they belonged to Count Myrrdin de Fontaine. I’d like your permission to find her and bring her back to Troyes. She cannot be safe wandering abroad.’

      Count Henry picked up a fresh quill and began toying with it. Already his thoughts were straying back to his account books. ‘Very well, you may find her, she can’t have got far.’

      Arthur rose. ‘Shall I bring her to meet you?’

      ‘Heavens, no, I’ve had second thoughts on that score. What would I do with the girl? When you find her, you can take her straight to Count Myrrdin in Brittany.’

      Take her straight to Count Myrrdin in Brittany?

      Arthur felt his jaw drop. ‘Take her to Fontaine? But, my lord—’

      ‘Myrrdin will know if she’s his daughter, he can decide what’s to be done with her.’ Count Henry picked up a knife and started trimming the quill.

      Arthur’s guts were cold. ‘My lord?’

      ‘There’s a problem, Captain?’

      ‘This...’ Arthur cleared his throat ‘...this commission may take some weeks to complete.’

      ‘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

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