This must have been Clare’s fate.
Except that Clare had been younger. A baby. There were no babies here today, but that little boy—he must be what, two years of age?
The landlord emerged through the door from the kitchen. ‘Excuse me, sir, you asked about food. We’ve ham-and-pea broth and plenty of bread. There’s cold chicken and spiced apple pie.’
‘Thank you, landlord, they should enjoy that. Let them have whatever they want. I’ll pay.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Bread and soup was set on a trestle. Arthur stroked Nell’s damp, tangled hair and turned her face to his. ‘Nell, are you hungry?’
She gave him a watery smile and nodded.
‘What happened, Nell? Why aren’t you in Troyes?’
The smile faded. Nell shook her head and her eyes filled. ‘Maman, Maman...’ Her voice broke.
Arthur’s heart turned to lead. Nicola must have died. ‘Something has happened to Nicola?’
Nell gulped. ‘She’s very poorly. She got worse after Clare left. And then those men came, they were asking about Clare.’
‘What are their names, Nell, do you know?’
Nell sniffed and shook her head. ‘They hit me.’ She paused. ‘They hit the others, too. They are bad, bad men.’
‘They won’t hit you again,’ Arthur said, firmly. ‘Tomorrow we shall take them to Count Henry and he will see that they are punished.’
Nell stuck her thumb into her mouth. Her dirty, mud-splattered thumb. Warily, for he was afraid of startling her, Arthur pulled it out of her mouth. ‘It’s time to see about dry clothes for you, too.’ He shifted and grimaced. ‘You’re all damp. And then you must eat.’
Nell sent the slavers an anxious look. ‘What if they escape? They’ll come and get me.’
‘No, they won’t. Tomorrow they are meeting Count Henry.’
A mud-streaked face looked up at him. ‘They’re going to prison?’
‘Most likely.’
‘And you will take me home?’
A lock of damp hair had fallen over her eyes, Arthur stroked it back. ‘Of course.’ He set her on her feet and turned her towards the screen where the landlord’s wife was waiting with an outstretched hand. ‘Time to get you properly dry.’
As Nell submitted herself to the innkeeper’s wife, she looked back and a smile trembled into being. ‘I prayed for you to come, Sir Arthur.’
Arthur’s chest constricted.
Whilst the innkeeper’s wife measured Nell against a frayed brown tunic, Nell’s eyes held his. ‘Sir Arthur?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Did you find Clare?’
‘Yes.’
‘I knew you would!’ Nell’s smile was dazzling. ‘Where is she?’
‘Clare’s living in Brittany, with her father.’
Nell’s eyes filled with questions.
‘Come, child, behind that curtain with you,’ the innkeeper’s wife said. ‘You can catch up with your news later.’
Nodding, Nell ducked behind the screen.
* * *
The next day, Arthur led a somewhat ramshackle cavalcade through the Paris Gate and into Troyes. Sergeant Hubert was on duty at the castle drawbridge. As the sergeant saluted, his eyes bulged as he took in the cart, the children, the prisoners, and the makeshift guard that Arthur had cobbled together that morning. A guard that was comprised of Ivo and two raw conscripts—the grooms from the inn.
‘Captain Ferrer, is that you, sir?’ the sergeant asked, glancing briefly at the unicorn on Arthur’s shield before returning his puzzled gaze to the cart.
Arthur pushed back his visor and grinned.
‘Welcome home, sir.’
‘My thanks. Sergeant, is Count Henry in residence?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Send word to him at once, would you? I need to speak to him as soon as possible. Please tell him it’s a matter of some urgency.’
* * *
Arthur was ushered directly to the solar, where Count Henry was sitting before a sea of parchments, dictating to a scribe. Count Henry dismissed the scribe with an airy wave of his hand. ‘We shall finish this later, Piers.’
‘Very good, my lord.’
Count Henry came to grasp Arthur’s hand. ‘Captain! Thank God you’re home. I take it you’re ready to resume your duties with the Guardians?’
The Count’s smile was as warm as ever and it went some way to dispelling any concern Arthur might have had that Sir Raphael of Reims might oust him as Captain.
‘Yes, my lord.’ Arthur was conscious of a faint feeling of bafflement. Of disappointment. Having Count Henry confirm that Sir Raphael was not going to replace him should surely lift his spirits more than this? ‘Sir Raphael performed well, my lord?’
‘Adequately. The boy’s a trifle green, Captain, as I am sure you suspected, but he handled the responsibility better than I hoped. Notwithstanding, I’m glad to have you back, as I will explain in due course. All went well in Brittany?’
‘Very well, mon seigneur.’ Arthur launched into a brief account of Clare’s unexpected rise in status. When he had finished, Count Henry was frowning.
‘Captain, you say Count Myrrdin has accepted this girl as his legitimate daughter?’
‘Without question. Apparently Clare—Lady Clare—resembles Countess Mathilde so closely there can be no doubt.’ He shrugged. ‘My lord, not only does Lady Clare have Count Myrrdin’s eyes, what I didn’t realise when we set out was that she also has Countess Mathilde’s hair and build. Everyone at Fontaine remarked on the likeness from the moment she rode into the bailey.’
‘Good Lord. And what about Countess Francesca? How do matters stand with her?’
‘Count Myrrdin accepts her as his adopted daughter, my lord. He loves her, but he has declared Lady Clare his heiress.’
Count Henry rubbed his cheek and took a thoughtful turn about the solar. ‘Countess Francesca will not find this easy to digest, although she will keep her title, thanks to her marriage to the Comte des Iles.’ He looked across, eyes sharp. ‘Count Tristan is proud, he married the Countess for Fontaine—he’s been acting as Myrrdin’s steward for years. I’m curious, Captain, as to how Count Tristan reacted to Lady Clare’s good fortune?’
Arthur spread his hands. ‘I cannot say, my lord. The Count of the Isles wasn’t at Fontaine, he’s attending the young Duchess in Rennes.’
Count Henry grimaced. ‘What a tangle. It might have been better if Lady Clare had been illegitimate.’
Arthur found himself springing to Clare’s defence. ‘I can’t agree with you there, my lord. Thanks to her resemblance to Countess Mathilde, Count Myrrdin is delighted to have found her.’
Although perhaps, if Clare had been illegitimate, I might have asked her to marry me again and she might eventually have seen her way to accepting me. The thought had flashed through Arthur’s mind before he could stop it. It was unsettling. It made his guts churn and he couldn’t work out why. Arthur had been landless when he met Clare and he was still landless. If she had never known her true lineage, would she have come to accept him? Would she?
‘Yes, but think, Captain,’ Count Henry was saying, ‘the ramifications of this are... Lord, what a mess. What happened, do you know? How could Myrrdin have lost his daughter in the first place? Did he suspect nothing?’
‘In my view, Count Myrrdin has long suspected that Countess Francesca was not his child.’ Arthur held Count Henry’s gaze and picked his words with care. Clare had sworn him to secrecy on the matter of her enslavement, and he wasn’t about to betray her. He would say as little as possible. ‘Count Myrrdin seems to believe Lady Clare was snatched from her cradle shortly after her birth. He was making enquiries when I left, but as to whether he will learn anything, I cannot say.’ He to
ok a deep breath. ‘Mon seigneur, turning closer to home, I have to report that last night my squire and I had an extremely unpleasant contretemps with a couple of felons. More precisely, with a couple of slavers.’
‘Slavers?’ Count Henry’s eyebrows snapped together. ‘Now there’s a coincidence. Sir Raphael has been running to me with the most unsavoury rumours.’
‘Concerning slavers?’
Count Henry nodded. ‘It’s the main reason I’m glad you’re back. Sir Raphael is far too credulous—someone’s spreading rumours about child slavery and the man believes them. He insists slavers have been at work in Troyes. In Troyes. It’s unthinkable, of course, but Sir Raphael is so convinced, he almost had me believing him.
‘He brought a woman to see me—she was completely hysterical. Babbling about a missing child. Missing? I told her the child had most likely run away, and what’s more—’
Arthur shook his head. ‘Count Henry, I regret to inform you that Sir Raphael has hit on the truth—slavers have indeed been at work in Troyes.’
Count Henry stared. ‘Not you, too? Captain, I was confident you would put an end to this nonsense.’ He plucked a scroll out of the mess on the table and waved it under Arthur’s nose. The scroll was weighed down with blue seals and beribboned in yellow. Arthur recognised it as a trade charter. ‘Troyes is the safest town in Champagne. It has to be. What will happen to our reputation as a centre for the fairs, if merchants cannot trade here and know they are secure? I have been in correspondence with King Louis on the subject, but—’
‘My lord, slavers have definitely been operating in the town. And the proof has currently been placed under guard in the castle lock-up.’
‘You have proof?’ Ashen-faced, Count Henry dropped the trade charter next to a heap of tally sticks. ‘I think, Captain Ferrer, you must tell me everything.’
* * *
By the time supper was over, Arthur must have repeated his tale a dozen times. It had been hard keeping Clare’s name out of it, and he regretted not being able to mention her involvement. When the Veronese and his henchman came to trial it would undoubtedly help if Lady Clare de Fontaine were to testify against them. Her word would have more weight than any defence they might muster. But if Clare couldn’t even confess her past to Count Myrrdin, she was surely never going to overcome her dread of testifying in Count Henry’s court.
Arthur couldn’t blame her. Until she had reached Brittany her life had been one ordeal after another. She had suffered enough and, if it helped her, he would spare her more trouble. She had honoured him with her trust when she had told him about the slavers. He wasn’t about to throw that away.
So, Arthur had told the tale a dozen times and had kept his lips firmly sealed about Lady Clare de Fontaine’s involvement with the slavers. As for the Veronese, he and his henchman were firmly lodged in Count Henry’s prison and there they would stay until the trial.
Nell had been placed in the care of one of Countess Marie’s ladies and it was full dark before Arthur found space to take her home. As soon as he could, he went to the ladies’ solar to collect her. Shortly afterwards, he was striding through the narrow streets with Nell dancing at his side.
Doors and shutters were edged with light. The air was crisp, and filled with the smell of cooking fires, of baking bread and roasting meat.
‘Aimée lives there,’ Nell said, pointing at one of the tall, wooden houses. ‘She and Clare are friends. When Clare comes back, you’ll see.’
Arthur didn’t have the heart to tell the child that it was unlikely that Clare would return, so he murmured something non-committal, and they crossed the street to Nicola’s house.
It was in darkness. Here, there was no telltale light creeping round the door, not so much as a sliver squeezing past the shutters. Arthur gave a shutter a gentle tug. It remained firm. Locked tight. He tipped his head and listened. Not a sound. No one was living here. Which could only mean one thing...
His throat closed. Nell was an orphan.
Nell skipped blithely to the door. As she reached for the latch, Arthur snatched her into his arms and swung her about.
‘Nell? I should like to meet Aimée. Which house did you say was hers?’
‘I want to see Mama first.’
A wave of something perilously close to panic swept through him. Nicola was dead, he knew it. Arthur would rather charge full tilt into a mêlée than deal with a grieving child. He looked helplessly at her. What should he say? What should he do?
‘My knight?’ To his astonishment, Nell laid her hand against his cheek. ‘Don’t be sad, we can see Aimée in a minute. I just want to see Mama first.’
A lump the size of a hen’s egg was jammed in his throat. Arthur swallowed—it seemed there was no escape. Lord, he’d rather deal with slavers...
‘Nell.’ He hugged her to him. ‘Nell, I think we might have to be very brave...’
The child’s eyes gleamed in the light from a nearby torch. Her expression had sobered. It was the sort of expression one usually saw on someone four times her age. She looked remarkably wise. And immeasurably sad.
‘I know that. Before the bad man stole me, Mama told me that she might have to go away. She said she was dying.’
Arthur’s eyes smarted and he had to clear his throat before he could speak. ‘Mama told you she was dying?’
Nell nodded, and that impossibly small, comforting hand went on patting his cheek. ‘Yes. And sometimes, I heard Mama talking about it with Clare. About what would happen to me after Mama was gone.’
Sniffing, Nell stared mournfully at the door. A large tear gleamed silver as it trailed down her cheek. ‘Sir Arthur, you needn’t worry about me. If something has happened to Mama, Clare will come. I know she will, she promised.’
Chapter Fourteen
‘Lady Clare?’
The Captain of Count Myrrdin’s guard caught her as she was about to enter the stables. Only yesterday, Clare’s father had given her a bay mare and she was keen to try out her paces. She wasn’t going to make the mistake of naming her too quickly—Swift had been a ridiculous name for that slug of a pony that she’d borrowed for her journey here. It seemed that Sir Arthur Ferrer had done more than teach her to ride, he had instilled in her his love of horses. The bay was a beauty and she must have the right name.
‘Captain?’
The Captain held out a scroll. ‘My lady, an envoy has ridden in from Troyes. He brought letters with him. This one’s for you.’
‘Thank you, Captain.’ Clare took the scroll and stared blankly at it. The letters on the outside meant nothing to her—she hadn’t begun her reading lessons yet—they were simply brown scribbles that looked as though they represented a series of waves. Could those marks really mean something? There was a green seal with a knight on it. It reminded her of the lead token that had given entry to the Twelfth Night Joust. It seemed a lifetime ago.
She fingered the seal, and her heart thumped against her ribs. Arthur. Arthur has written to me. She could think of no reason why he should do so, but green was his colour...
‘Who sent this, do you know?’
The Captain shrugged. ‘My apologies, my lady, the envoy didn’t say who the letter was from. Is there anything else?’
‘Thank you, Captain, that will be all.’
Why has Arthur written to me?
Holy Mother, she missed that man. She’d scarcely slept since he’d ridden out of Fontaine and her nights had become a tedious succession of empty hells. Longing, she had discovered, was akin to hunger, gnawing at her, incessant. Clare felt lonely. And she had learned a new meaning for misery. Misery was not knowing what Arthur was doing, it was not knowing whether he was happy or not. Had he visited that girl—Gabrielle—in the Black Boar?
In bed in her tower room, Clare would curl up in a ball and try to push th
e loneliness away. But the loneliness wouldn’t leave her, nor the longing, nor the emptiness. How could she be lonely when for the first time in her life she was with her real family? She was surrounded by people who were genuinely concerned for her—her father loved her, her sister had become a friend, she liked her maid...
It seemed ungrateful to feel such misery.
The bay mare forgotten, Clare went to find Francesca.
* * *
She found her hunched over a trestle in the solar, sketching a design for a wall hanging on to a length of cloth. Her fingertips were black with charcoal.
Clare opened without preamble. ‘Francesca, can you read?’
‘Yes, indeed. Why?’
‘A letter has arrived from Champagne.’ As Clare broke the seal, the green knight cracked in two. She stared at it in dismay. ‘Oh, no!’
‘What’s the matter? Clare?’
‘The knight—oh, never mind. Here, I’d like you to read this to me.’ Clare bit her lip. Her stomach was tying itself into knots. If the letter was from Arthur, she would prefer to digest the contents in privacy, but someone had to read it to her and Francesca seemed the safest choice. Arthur knew she couldn’t read and she was sure a chivalrous knight like Arthur wouldn’t dream of referring to what had passed between them at the monastery—none the less, it would make her uncomfortable showing it to her father. And she couldn’t ask Father Alar!
Francesca dusted charcoal from her fingers and took the roll of parchment.
‘It’s from Sir Arthur,’ she said, giving Clare a measuring glance. ‘But I suspect you know that already.’
‘I wasn’t certain.’ Impatience was building up inside her, the knots were tightening.
‘Goodness, Clare, it’s very long.’
‘Francesca, what does he say?’
Lifting an eyebrow at her tone, Francesca began to read.
Lady Clare. Right worshipful lady, greetings. I pray that you, Count Myrrdin and Countess Francesca are in full health.
Much as I regret it, I fear this letter will bring you much sadness and some anger. In brief, Ivo and I were half a day’s ride from Troyes when we were hailed by Nicola’s daughter, Nell. It happened as we arrived at an inn where we intended to pass the night. Nell had been taken by slavers, who had put her in a cart with some other children. Nell recognised my voice and managed to attract our attention—
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