LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

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?

Скачать книгу