Unveiling Lady Clare

by Carol Townend

  Countess Francesca’s mouth thinned. ‘Fontaine is not my home, as everyone knows. By birth you—’ her voice held authority, but at this point it cracked ‘—by birth you outrank me. You may call me Francesca.’

  ‘My lady,’ Clare said, firmly. Her heart was thudding. She’d been right to insist on coming. This poor woman was in shreds because of her arrival. And she was looking at Clare with utter loathing. Clare stiffened her spine. She had dealt with the indifference of others; she had dealt with cruelty, lust and rage, but never before had she looked anyone in the eye and seen such hatred. It was coming off Countess Francesca in waves. ‘My lady, if you would permit, I should like to think of you as my sister. Only if you agree to think of yourself as my sister will I feel comfortable addressing you as Francesca.’

  Countess Francesca’s gaze swept her from crown to toes. ‘You are not my sister. You and I share not one drop of blood. My lady, I—’ she lifted her shoulders, eyes cold ‘—I am the thief at your gate. I am a beggar.’

  At her side, Arthur made an impatient movement and, sensing that he was about to intervene, Clare sent him a swift headshake.

  ‘My lady, you are no such thing.’ She made her voice warm. ‘I believe you were as shocked to learn of my parentage as I was.’

  The Countess snorted. ‘Shocked—you could put it that way.’

  ‘I really would like to think of you as my sister.’

  The Comtesse des Iles stared, her expression no longer cold and proud, but baffled. Baffled and broken.

  Clare’s heart twisted. She could see she had some convincing to do before the Countess accepted her.

  Impulsively, she seated herself on the cushion next to the Countess and touched her hand—it was stone cold. ‘My lady, I have something to tell you and it may take some while.’ She included the maid in her smile. ‘We could go downstairs, the fire is better in the hall. Unless someone could arrange for more wood to be brought up?’

  The maid sniffled, surreptitiously wiping her nose with the back of her hand. ‘I’ll fetch the wood.’

  ‘Thank you, Mari,’ the Countess murmured.

  Mari gave her mistress a straight look. ‘My lady, I reckon you ought to listen to Lady Clare.’

  As the maid moved towards the corridor, Arthur cleared his throat. ‘I’ll get Conan to help you with the firewood.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  When Arthur and the maid had gone, Clare leaned back and looked the Countess in the eye. ‘I have always wanted a sister.’

  ‘I am not your sister, my lady.’

  ‘Papa loves you.’

  ‘Does he? Then why did he let me go so easily? Why didn’t he send someone after me?’

  ‘He...oh, Francesca—you will let me call you that...?’

  ‘As you wish.’

  ‘Francesca, I am so glad that you have agreed to speak to me. I have wanted to talk to you about Papa for days.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He seems to have difficulties and I need to know how you deal with them. Sometimes all is well, but at others, he drifts into another world. You must have noticed.’

  Silently, Francesca stared at her, and something in her eyes made Clare realise she had been wrong about Francesca loathing her. It wasn’t loathing she was looking at, it was fear. Countess Francesca’s angry greeting—you want me to leave—echoed in her mind.

  The Countess was afraid she had come to claim St Méen for herself. As part of Francesca’s dowry, St Méen had been Francesca’s gift to her husband; she must dread the thought that she would bring him nothing. Further, it was likely she thought of St Méen as her last, private refuge. She needed reassurance that it was not going to be clawed back as part of the Fontaine estate.

  Smiling, Clare made a show of looking about the solar. A silver shield painted with three black cinquefoils hung over the fireplace. The cushions they were sitting on—delicately embroidered silk—were plump and comfortable. Yes, her sister loved this place. It was clear it was full of happy memories.

  The door at the bottom of the stairwell banged in the distance and a wall hanging shivered in the draught. Arthur’s voice drifted along the corridor. ‘Mari, let Conan, that’s too heavy for you. You bring the kindling.’

  ‘What a beautiful tapestry that is,’ Clare said, studying the wall hanging. Knights and ladies were feasting at a damask-covered table in a woodland setting. A silver border starred with black cinquefoils had been worked along the margins. ‘Very sumptuous,’ she murmured, lifting an eyebrow at Francesca. ‘Silver and black are not the colours of Fontaine.’

  ‘No, those are my husband’s colours.’

  ‘Did you work that wall hanging?’

  ‘Mari and I worked it together.’

  ‘It’s gorgeous. This solar is a happy place—you love St Méen.’

  ‘This manor is home to me.’

  Arthur clattered in with Conan and Mari and Clare lowered her voice. ‘Francesca, Father gave this manor to you as part of your dowry. It won’t be taken from you, it’s yours, for ever.’

  Francesca’s eyes filled and her throat worked. ‘Truly?’

  ‘What kind of sister would I be to rob you of your dowry?’

  ‘Thank you, my lady, but you cannot understand the tradition. For generations, St Méen has been held by the Lords of Fontaine. It was given to me as Pap...Count Myrrdin’s heiress, on the understanding that it would eventually pass to my heir—to the next Count of Fontaine. Allow me to keep St Méen, and not only do you rob your children of the manor and its revenues, but you also break with a tradition that goes back generations.’

  ‘Traditions are meant to be broken.’ Clare shrugged. ‘Particularly this one, which takes no account of present circumstances.’

  Eyes bright, a small smile lifted the edges of Francesca’s mouth. She wiped away a tear. ‘Thank you, my lady. You are grace itself.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Clare held out her hand, and when Francesca took it and returned her clasp, her whole body relaxed. Thank goodness. ‘Enough of that, I really came because I needed to speak to you about Papa. Later, when our horses have rested, perhaps you might consider coming back to the castle. Papa—’

  ‘He’s not seriously ill? He was fine when I left.’

  Clare grimaced. ‘He doesn’t have an illness of the body, but I do fear for him. I suspect what ails him might be to do with his age. It’s hard to pin down—sometimes he finds it hard to follow a conversation, at others he’s sharp as a needle. When I first arrived, he was very bright. Later that evening though, after we had discovered that you had left the castle, he was completely stricken. I fear he cannot cope with...complexity. And worry makes it worse. He’s not been right since you rushed away.’

  Francesca stared thoughtfully into the fire. ‘I’ve noticed Papa can be vague, but I put it down to the fact that older people tire more easily.’

  ‘That’s certainly part of it. Francesca, he’s missing you and it’s my belief he needs you. I know it will do him good to see you. Please consider riding back with us. When the horses have rested?’

  ‘Very well.’ Francesca smiled. ‘I miss Pap—Count Myrrdin, too.’

  Clare frowned. ‘Papa thinks of you as his daughter, too. You grew up at Fontaine and he loves you. I am sure he will tell you when he sees you.’

  ‘He didn’t summon me back to Fontaine and he could have done,’ Francesca said, in a sceptical tone.

  ‘My arrival at Fontaine has been a shock to us all, and I suspect Papa finds it more challenging than we realise. He’s glad to see me, but—’ Arthur was tossing logs on to the fire and the sparks were flying ‘—his routines have been altered. Nothing is as it was. Francesca, it’s as though my arrival has made him lose his way.’

  ‘I’m told you are the image of Countess Mathilde.’

&nb
sp; ‘So everyone says. Francesca, Papa’s wandering about in a maze that must seem as though its changing shape with his every step. He’s confused by what’s happened, as are we all. In Papa’s case, the worry is making him ill. We—Papa and I—need you back at the castle. With you at Fontaine, I am convinced he will soon be well. Come back with us. Please?’

  Arthur booted a log more firmly into the fire and stared into the embers as Conan went out. Should he wait downstairs? Clare’s conversation with her sister was being conducted quietly, but he could hear what they were saying. Clare wasn’t telling the Countess anything that she hadn’t already told him, but he found her generosity—the easy way she relinquished this manor—staggering. Not to mention galling.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Ladies, I shall check the horses.’

  With a quick bow, he left the solar.

  She is giving away a manor. Arthur’s fists clenched as he stalked along the shadowy corridor. That one act, done with such negligence, served to emphasise the gulf that had sprung up between them. She is Lady Clare. Heiress to the County of Fontaine. Whilst I...

  * * *

  In the stables, the groom had removed the horses’ saddles and was brushing Steel down. ‘I’ll do that,’ Arthur said, snatching the brush from the groom.

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  Arthur scowled. ‘Conan?’

  ‘Yes, my lord?’ The groom gave him a wary look.

  ‘Conan, I am a knight, not a lord.’ A landless knight. I would give my eye teeth for a manor half the size of St Méen. And she tosses it away as though it were a trinket bought at a fair.

  ‘Yes, sir, my apologies.’

  Realising that Conan was eyeing him as though he feared he might bite, Arthur shook his head and raked his hand through his hair. ‘Hell burn it, Conan, ignore me. I’m bad company today.’

  Conan studied him for a moment and nodded. ‘That’s all right, sir. Likely the journey back to Champagne’s preying on your mind?’

  Arthur swept the brush across Steel’s flanks and grunted.

  ‘Can’t be pleasant, travelling that far at this time of year,’ Conan went on. ‘Must be hard to leave the comforts of Fontaine.’

  Arthur gripped the brush till his knuckles showed white and forced lightness into his voice. ‘I shall be glad to see home.’

  He couldn’t understand it, but the words stuck in his throat, like a lie. Suddenly chill, he stared blindly at Steel. It was a lie. He had no desire to return to Troyes, not if Clare was to stay in Fontaine. He wanted her with him—he wanted her at his side, where she belonged.

  Mon Dieu, what the devil was the matter with him? Clare didn’t belong to him. Yes, he had bedded her, but that didn’t give him rights over her. She was just a girl, a pretty girl whose eagerness to bed him had been a rare delight. A rare and transient delight. He mustn’t allow desire for more of the same to turn him from his duty to the Guardians. Besides, there were plenty of pretty girls in Troyes, he would simply find another.

  His mouth twisted. As soon as the thaw came, he would be on his way. Tempted though he was by the idea of lingering, he had to get back. If the Veronese was operating in Troyes, Count Henry must be told. The Guardians must step up patrols, they must increase their range. It was his duty to rid Champagne of the slavers.

  There were other reasons for Arthur to leave as soon as possible. Clare elicited oddly possessive feelings in him, feelings that for her sake, he would never act on. She had told him that she would never marry, but her change of fortune would inevitably lead to a change of heart. Lady Clare de Fontaine would marry, and she would marry well. The field must be left clear, so that when a suitable man appeared Clare could make the dynastic marriage that she surely deserved.

  ‘The wind’s lost that raw edge,’ he muttered, scowling through the doorway.

  ‘Aye, sir, the thaw’s not far off. You’ll be back in Champagne before you know it.’

  * * *

  Winter kept its grip on the Brocéliande for another week, but eventually the day dawned when the roads were passable. Beneath a light dusting of frost, the sap was rising. Buds swelled on the trees. Green shoots poked through the snow like tiny spears.

  The weather wasn’t the only thing telling Arthur it was time to go. After a shaky start, Clare and her adopted sister looked set to become friends. This was due in no little part to Count Myrrdin, whose face lit like a beacon whenever he saw them talking to each other. At first, the girls’ unlikely friendship was probably founded on little more than the fact that they both wanted to please Count Myrrdin, but their friendship would, Arthur was sure, evolve into something more solid.

  How could the Countess fail to appreciate Clare’s thoughtfulness in riding out to St Méen to reassure her of her father’s love? How could she fail to appreciate Clare’s generosity in allowing her to keep the manor?

  Clare de Fontaine was thoughtful; she was tactful and generous. She had all the qualities needed to make a fine chatelaine for her father’s castle and it would not be long before she herself realised it.

  On the day of his departure, Arthur waited until everyone had broken their fast before approaching her to make his farewell. Servants had cleared away the last of the crumbs as he glanced at Ivo. ‘Are you packed up and ready to go, lad?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Arthur jerked his head towards the main door. ‘Go and ready the horses, I’ll join you shortly.’

  Clare was standing near the dais, examining a tablecloth with two maidservants. Today, her gown was the colour of a June sky and her veil was so light that it seemed to be fashioned from gossamer. She looked calm. Poised. And born to her role as Count Myrrdin’s heiress.

  Feeling as though he had taken a dagger to the heart, Arthur stepped forwards. ‘My lady? A word, if you please.’

  The women pushed past him with the cloth and then Arthur was looking into those rare and beautiful eyes. His guts twisted as he realised it was probably the last time he would do so.

  Her eyelashes lowered. ‘You’re leaving,’ she said, voice flat. ‘You’re leaving this morning.’

  ‘I... Yes.’ Suddenly tongue-tied, it was all he could manage.

  Arthur had had a little speech planned. He had planned to tell her that she was going to make a fine lady, a lady any lord would be proud to marry. He had planned to tell her that she need have no fears for her father’s wits—any man who could manipulate his daughters into befriending each other in such trying circumstances could hardly be wanting in wits. He planned to say...oh, countless things, but he was conscious of the women bustling from the hall; of a group of soldiers warming their backs at the fire; of Ivo waiting for him in the stable. Regret was a cold hand squeezing his insides. ‘There is no time.’

  She smiled. ‘You return to your duties in Troyes.’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  She offered him her hand in the grand manner. It was slim and delicate, faintly red and chapped with too much work, but the scars of her harsh past were fading. Arthur kissed it and forced a smile. ‘I am happy you have found your home, my lady.’

  ‘Thank you for bringing me to Brittany, sir. I realise it was a great inconvenience.’ Her lips curved and, briefly, heart-stoppingly, her eyes danced. ‘At least for the most part.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said, pressing her fingers in a small, secret caress. Her comment was a timely reminder that, tongue-tied or not, there was something he must say before he left. Conscious they were not alone, he leaned as close as he dare, and lowered his voice. ‘You will let me know if there are any consequences from our stay at the monastery.’

  Her brow wrinkled. ‘Consequences?’ Her cheeks went pink. ‘Oh. No, sir, there are no consequences.’

  ‘You are certain?’

  ‘Quite certain.’

  A cold wave washed over him. It wasn
’t disappointment, but it felt remarkably like it. Keeping his expression under a tight rein, he looked guardedly at her. ‘You will be happy here, I think.’ I hope.

  Slender fingers tightened on his. ‘Sir, you have been a good friend and I am truly sorry to bid you farewell. Please remember you are always welcome at Fontaine. We would be honoured to see you at any time.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady. For my part, I should like you to know that if you ever need my help, you must not hesitate to send for me.’

  ‘My thanks.’ With a shy smile and a self-conscious glance at the soldiers by the fireplace, she withdrew her hand from his. ‘Farewell, Sir Arthur. Godspeed.’

  ‘Farewell, Lady Clare.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Clare kept her gaze on Arthur’s broad back as he strode down the hall. She felt as though she had turned to stone. When he snatched his green cloak from a trestle and flung it about his shoulders, she had to clench her fists to stop herself running after him. Her eyelids prickled.

  By the fire, a soldier sniggered.

  ‘My lady?’

  Clare started. Her maidservant was back, the tablecloth folded over her arm.

  ‘My lady, what else would you like us to do?’

  Clare opened her mouth and shut it with a snap. There was room in her for only one thought. Arthur is leaving.

  ‘Later, Jan, later,’ she muttered. Picking up her skirts, she left the hall. As soon as the door shut behind her, she flew to the tower stairs. Up she went, up past her bedchamber, through the door at the top and out on to the battlements.

  A keen westerly was whistling through the crenels and the sky was a patchwork of blue, white and grey. It would rain later. Wrapping her veil about her neck, Clare found a spot where she had clear sight of the gatehouse and the road out of Brittany.

  She didn’t have long to wait. The brisk clopping of hoofs announced his departure. She saw a splash of green and the guards saluting. Ivo was at his side. Everything looked small. The unicorn on his shield caught the light and the hard shine of his helmet. She couldn’t see his face. Or his eyes. That man wears a small silver pendant about his neck.