LITMIR.BIZ

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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?’

      ‘Find Myrrdin’s daughter before you start ferreting about in those caves, eh?’

      ‘But, my lord, the outlaws...’

      The Count sighed. ‘Sir Raphael can take a troop to the caves. You know the girl, you bring her here.’

      ‘Yes, my lord.’

      * * *

      Clare was walking back from the market with Nell, her basket over her arm. She had spent the day trying to convince herself that Paolo had been wrong about seeing slavers in Troyes, and had almost succeeded when she saw the two men standing under the eaves of the house next to Nicola’s.

      Sight of them turned her guts to ice. Although Nell was still jigging along beside her, chattering nineteen to the dozen, it was as though the child had been struck dumb. Clare couldn’t hear her. She couldn’t hear anything except the blood rushing in her ears.

      Ducking her head, she whipped round and affected a great interest in the carving on a nearby lintel. One of the men was unknown to her, but the other...the other...

      I am going to be sick.

      The other man was unquestionably Lorenzo da Verona, more commonly known as the Veronese. Clare hadn’t known he travelled as far from Apulia as this, but it made sense. Da Verona would cast his net wide to find slaves. The fact that it was forbidden to sell or own slaves in Champagne wouldn’t stop his evil business. Slaves could be taken from anywhere, as she herself knew. In Apulia where her master lived, Clare had crossed paths with slaves who had been captured in France, in Brittany, in the Aquitaine...

      Slavery was a trade that knew no boundaries. Da Verona’s only concern was to turn a fat profit. Clare’s master—her former master—had bought many slaves from the man standing not twelve feet behind her, herself included. Clare had no memory of her early life. She only knew of da Verona’s involvement because one day, when her master had been buying more slaves from him, her mistress had informed her that she, too, had been bought from the Veronese.

      Time seemed to slow. Da Verona mustn’t see her—he would seize her and return her to her master! She must leave Troyes today. Had she left it too late? Blessed Virgin, what would happen to Nicola? To Nell? How would they cope?

      ‘Clare, you’re not listening,’ Nell said, twitching at her skirts.

      ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’ve just realised I’ve forgotten to buy salt. Be a love and carry the basket home, will you? I shall follow when I’ve bought the salt.’

      Those men are talking about me, I know it. Lord knows how the Veronese found me, but somehow he knows where I live. There is no time. I must leave.

      Clare had hoped to stay in Troyes long enough to ensure that Nell was cared for when Nicola died. For Nicola was dying, of that there was no doubt. Every day it was more of a struggle for her to leave her cot; every day she became more drawn, more grey. Nicola might have days left, she might have weeks, it was impossible to judge. Clare had wanted to stay with them until the end, she had wanted Nell to be able to live her old normal life for as long as possible.

      ‘I can come with you to buy salt,’ Nell said.

      Blinking through a blur of tears, Clare handed Nell the basket. ‘Thank you, but that’s not necessary. Mama is waiting for these things. When you get home, I need you to start the soup for me.’ Conscious of the men at her back, Clare went down on her haunches, so as to meet Nell eye to eye. ‘Can you do that, sweetheart? Do you remember when we made barley soup?’

      ‘I remember.’

      ‘Do you think you can make it on your own?’

      ‘Yes!’

      ‘Good girl.’ Poor Nell. First she loses her brother and soon she will lose her mother. If truth be known, Clare had prayed for a few more weeks with Nicola and Nell. Living with them had been her only taste of family life and she was greedy for more. However, it would seem that God had other plans. She swallowed hard, blinked away the blur and managed a smile. ‘Off you go. Make a start on the soup. If I’m late, you can give Mama her supper. And...’ she paused ‘...this is important, sweetheart. If you get stuck with the recipe, if something happens that worries you, go straight to Aimée. Aimée will help you, she will always help you.’

      Nell looked at her as though she had grown horns. ‘I know that, silly.’

      Smile wobbling, Clare straightened and made a shooing gesture with her hands.

      ‘See you later,’ Nell said and skipped away.

      Throat tight, Clare watched her go. Keeping her head down and her hood up, she walked swiftly past the two men and slipped into an alley between the houses. It was dank and shadowy, more of a gutter than an alley—the ground was soggy with moss. Her mind raced as she hurried along. She knew exactly what she must do.

      She had money left over from market, Nicola would not begrudge her it. First she would find a scribe and get a note to Sir Arthur. He would see that Nicola and Nell were safe. Then she would buy bread and then she would leave.

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