Unveiling Lady Clare

by Carol Townend

  Francesca broke off with a gasp. ‘Slavers?’

  Clare’s nails dug into her palms. ‘Holy Mother, Francesca, read on!’

  Eyes wide, Francesca bent over the parchment.

  With the aid of some grooms and a number of villagers, we captured the slavers and freed the children. You must not worry about Nell, she is safe in Troyes. The other children have been returned to their families, and the slavers are in Count Henry’s custody awaiting trial. My lady, you may be interested to hear that one of them is known as ‘the Veronese’.

  Count Henry has put out a call for further witnesses. Stories have been circulating that the old trade routes may have been used by slavers for years. As you might imagine, he is anxious to meet anyone who could throw more light on this. Unfortunately, we know of no one who might help, but the Count would be delighted if someone were to step forwards. Whether that will happen or not is in God’s hands, but one thing is certain, these men will come to trial. I am sure you will join me in praying that justice is done.

  Nell asks after you constantly. She has asked me to inform you that Nicola has died...

  Francesca paused a second time, Clare felt the weight of her gaze on her, then she sighed and resumed reading.

  Nell is a brave and wise child, and she has been remarkably resilient in the face of her mother’s death. She asked if she could come and live with me. I have explained that the Troyes barracks are no place for a small girl and she seems to understand this. She is presently living with Aimée across the street from her old house. Countess Isobel d’Aveyron has offered to foster her, but Nell told me that she is happier living in a familiar place with people she knows. She wants for nothing and asks after you often.

  Nell was under the impression that you would come for her. I have explained that your home is now in Brittany and she understands, but she was insistent that I write to tell you about Nicola.

  Should you wish to send a message back to Troyes, concerning Nell, or indeed on any other subject that may please you, I pray that you send word back with the envoy who brought this letter.

  I remain your humble servant and friend. Each day I pray that all God’s blessings may be yours.

  Arthur Ferrer

  ‘That’s it. My goodness, what news,’ Francesca said, staring at the letter with round eyes. ‘Is Nicola the woman you lived with in Troyes?’

  ‘Yes, her death is not unexpected, she had been barely clinging to life for over a year. But the child, oh, Lord...’

  Clare’s mind was a jumble, some thoughts were painful—Nicola has died...Nell is on her own...Slavers...the Veronese. Other thoughts made her nervous and jittery—Arthur prays for me every day. And he has kept my secret, as he swore he would. It would surely have advanced him in the eyes of Count Henry if he had revealed that I might be the witness Count Henry is looking for, yet he has not done so. He has kept his word.

  Francesca touched her arm. ‘Clare, you’re white as milk, you need to sit down. I am sorry about your friend Nicola.’

  ‘She was a kind, good woman.’ Eyes prickling, Clare took the parchment, blinking rapidly to bring the squiggly lines back into focus. They were strongly formed in brown ink. Had Arthur paid for a scribe? Or had he written this himself? ‘Are these marks at the bottom his name?’

  Francesca smiled and pointed. ‘Yes, that larger mark is the “A”, the first letter of his name, the rest follows. “Arthur Ferrer”.’

  ‘Careful, Francesca, your finger’s dirty, you’re marking it.’

  ‘You love him.’

  Though Francesca spoke softly, the words hung in the air. You love him.

  Clare couldn’t move. She opened her mouth to deny it and closed it again. You love him. It sounded like the truth and it felt like the truth.

  ‘Love,’ she murmured. ‘Is that the reason for this aching sense of loneliness, even though I am not alone? I feel empty inside. Is that the reason I haven’t slept since he left?’

  Francesca squeezed her hand and sighed. ‘That’s love.’

  Love. I love him.

  ‘I wasn’t sure. I thought—’ Clare shrugged, even as the solar shimmered behind a sudden rush of tears. ‘I am not used to love, you see. I was beginning to understand that what I feel for Nicola and Nell is love. Its hurts to know that Nicola has died.’

  ‘I’m sure it does. Clare, there are many kinds of love.’ With a glance at the solar door, Francesca lowered her voice. ‘If you want him, you will have to fight for him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It won’t be long before Papa finds you a husband. He was speaking of it again the other day.’

  ‘No! I told Papa I had no wish to marry.’

  ‘Clare, you cannot escape it. As his legitimate daughter you must marry.’

  ‘I cannot!’ Clare would never forget the way her master had lorded it over his wife in Apulia. Ugly memories rushed back at her. The beatings. The echoes of her mistress’s stifled screams were as chilling today as they had been when the beatings had taken place. Clare thought of the veils her mistress had worn, not for modesty, but to hide the bruises. ‘I have seen at close hand how marriage can turn a husband into a demon.’

  ‘A demon?’ Francesca glanced frowningly at the letter. ‘I doubt Sir Arthur is a demon. A demon would never have taken such care with someone else’s child—’

  ‘He is good with Nell,’ Clare said. ‘I saw that for myself back in Troyes. And of course I realise that Sir Arthur would never treat me badly. But I am wary of marriage.’

  ‘Go on...’

  Clare pursed her lips and pushed back the memories. ‘Francesca, I have status here. And freedom such as I never dreamed was possible, particularly for a woman. I don’t want to give that up.’

  ‘I don’t see why you should have to give anything up,’ Francesca said. ‘Love should strengthen you, not weaken you. If you and Sir Arthur love each other—’

  ‘You’re jumping to conclusions. I have no idea what Arthur thinks of me.’

  Francesca gripped her hand. ‘He is fond of you, I am sure. He is certainly attracted to you. You must have noticed.’

  Wiping her eyes, Clare hoped Francesca didn’t mark the flare of hot colour in her cheeks. He was certainly attracted in the monastery. ‘He asked me to marry him.’

  ‘He did?’ Francesca’s fingers tightened on hers. ‘When? What did you say?’

  Clare bit her lip. ‘It was on our journey here. I refused him.’

  ‘Do you love him?’

  Clare nodded. ‘Very much. And I think I loved him then, only I didn’t realise.’ She returned the pressure on her fingers. ‘Francesca, I have been such a fool. I thought... I didn’t know much about love. Until lately my experience of it has been somewhat...meagre.’

  ‘Did Sir Arthur mention marriage again after you arrived here?’

  Clare stared at the name scrawled at the bottom of the letter. She had no idea if her love was reciprocated. Arthur had never mentioned love and he had ridden away without a backward look. It seemed likely that he had offered her marriage at St Peter’s out of a misplaced sense of chivalry. He had taken her maidenhead and his code dictated that he must ask for her hand. And she had refused him.

  ‘He endorsed what you and Father have told me, that I must marry. He didn’t repeat his offer.’

  ‘No, he wouldn’t. Too proud, I expect.’

  ‘Too proud?’

  ‘Clare, before you reached Fontaine, Sir Arthur thought you were illegitimate. That changed when you arrived. He wouldn’t presume to offer for you knowing your true lineage. He would realise that Papa would want you to make a dynastic marriage.’

  ‘He did say something of that nature.’

  ‘He cares about you.’ Francesca plucked the scroll out of her hand. ‘Look at this. He open
s with “right worshipful lady”. Clare, that is not a common mode of address.’

  ‘Is it not? Francesca, a large part of my life was spent in Apulia, some nuances of the language escape me.’

  ‘Believe me, “right worshipful lady” is a phrase used only by the closest of friends. And look here...’ a charcoal-smudged finger stabbed at the parchment ‘...he prays for you each day. Clare, you can’t let the man rot in Troyes. Not when you are looking at this letter as though it were the Holy Grail. What are you going to do?’

  Clare held out her hand for the letter and looked Francesca square in the eye. ‘I made a promise when I was living in Troyes.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I said I would look after Nell when Nicola’s time came. I must honour that promise.’

  ‘You’re returning to Troyes?’

  ‘If Papa agrees.’ She paused, staring at the bottom of the scroll where Arthur had written his name. ‘I also need to speak to Papa about my marriage.’

  ‘Your marriage? But didn’t you say—?’

  ‘Papa mentioned that he might consider Arthur for my husband and I need to see if he’s of the same mind.’ Clare’s pulse quickened. It wouldn’t be easy, her father was changeable. And what if Arthur no longer wanted her?

  I ought to tell Arthur about the charges that were laid against me in Apulia. If I am considering marrying the man, he should know everything about me.

  ‘Arthur did like me,’ she murmured, meeting her sister’s gaze. And I pray he will continue to do so when he learns the truth. ‘Francesca, if liking exists, do you think that love might follow?’

  ‘I certainly think it’s worth a try. You have to marry someone—why not try for the man you love?’

  Clare straightened her back. ‘You’re right, I shall speak to Papa without delay. However, whatever he decides, I will be going to Troyes, I have to see Nell.’

  ‘If you’d care to take a companion, I’d love to come with you. I’ve always wanted to see Champagne. My husband has a manor outside Provins. We could visit it.’

  ‘I’d welcome your company. Though I should warn you, the way is long and arduous.’

  Francesca smiled. ‘Not with a guide and a large escort. So, that’s settled. And on our way, you can tell me about your life in Apulia. I am curious to know how it is that you don’t recognise love when it is staring you in the face. You’ve been keeping things from me and I don’t like it.’

  Clare held her hand out for the scroll, smoothed out the creases and rolled it up. Am I doing the right thing? How will Arthur react when I tell him about Sandro?

  Francesca was watching her, an impish glint in her eyes. ‘By the way, Clare, next time you get a billet-doux, if you want to open it without destroying the seal, you might try sliding a hot knife under it.’

  ‘A billet-doux?’

  ‘That, Clare, is a love letter, and that is what this is, a love letter.’

  Hope flaring in her breast, Clare looked at the letter and wondered. A love letter? Maybe. But what Francesca didn’t know was what Arthur had not said in his letter.

  Arthur wants me to testify against the Veronese. He knows it’s the last thing I want to do, but this letter is his tactful way of letting me know...

  Clare couldn’t testify. If she did, every noble in the land would come to hear that Count Myrrdin’s daughter had spent most of her life as a slave. She simply couldn’t shame her father in that way.

  Be that as it may, if Count Myrrdin agreed to accept Arthur as her husband, she would have two reasons for returning to Troyes. She would be returning with a proposition for Sir Arthur Ferrer. The outcome of that would be in God’s hands and it had no bearing on her other reason, which was that she must honour the promise she had made to Nell. She would offer Nell a home at Fontaine.

  She was not returning to testify against the Veronese. She was not.

  * * *

  Count Myrrdin insisted that his daughters took a respectable escort with them on their journey to the Champagne Court. His idea of a respectable escort turned out to consist of two of his household knights with their squires, six men-at-arms, two serving men as well as his daughters’ maids. The women, including the two maids, rode astride. Along the way, the party attracted no little attention. In the villages, people stopped to stare. Gaggles of children ran along the road after them, laughing and giggling as they held up food in hope of selling it—their mother’s best almond cake, a wheaten loaf sweetened with honey and raisins, a round of goat’s cheese...

  After living in the shadows for so long, Clare felt awkward being the focus of all eyes. However, after handing a penny to a gap-toothed girl in exchange for a wheaten loaf and receiving a broad grin along with loaf, she was pleased to find she was enjoying herself.

  When she had left Troyes at the turn of the year, she had done so hastily, a shabby runaway who had begged a ride on the back of a merchant’s cart. It was hard to credit the transformation that had taken place in the past few months. It was Lent and here she was, returning as Count Myrrdin’s legitimate daughter! She had a loving, if eccentric, father and an adopted sister who each day was becoming more and more of a friend. Strangest of all, she was an heiress who, by her father’s order, must travel with an escort so grand it drew all eyes.

  * * *

  They reached Troyes towards the end of an afternoon of a hard spring frost, a frost that made the budding shrubs glitter with white. The cold bit sharply through gloves and boots. As the city drew near, Clare could see the guards on the walls—their faces were lost in the mist of their breath.

  Entering by the Auxerre Gate, Count Myrrdin’s daughters and their train were soon riding through the grain market.

  Clare’s gaze was pulled to the Black Boar on the other side of the square. On account of the chill, there were no girls sitting on the bench outside it, but shrieks of feminine laughter were gusting through the louvres along with the smoke. It was none of Clare’s business, but that didn’t stop the thoughts jumping into her head. Is Gabrielle working there today? Has Arthur visited her?

  ‘What is that place?’ Francesca asked, her saddle creaking as she turned to see what Clare was looking at.

  ‘It’s just an inn popular with soldiers from the garrison,’ Clare murmured.

  On their travels, Clare had allowed herself to open up to Francesca, who had become something of a confidante. She had told Francesca the truth of her life in Apulia, even of the shame of her enslavement, on condition that Francesca never revealed it to their father.

  ‘It’s your story,’ Francesca had said. ‘You will tell him when you are ready, I am sure.’

  ‘I couldn’t do that, Papa would be shamed!’

  ‘Nonsense, it wasn’t your fault. Does Sir Arthur know?’

  Clare had grimaced. ‘He knows most of it.’ And soon she must tell him about the crime she had been accused of in Apulia. Attempted murder. She was learning to put her trust in others, particularly in Arthur, but was this too large and shameful a secret? Charges had been laid against her. I stabbed a man and almost killed him.

  Worry gnawed away at her. How will Arthur react when I tell him?

  Smiling brightly, she pointed ahead down the Rue de l’Epicerie. ‘If we follow this street, we should reach a bridge over a canal. The palace is on the other side of the bridge.’

  Count Myrrdin had only agreed to his daughters taking the journey provided that they were lodged in Count Henry’s palace. They carried letters from Count Myrrdin to Count Henry, everything had been arranged. Almost everything. Clare’s stomach tightened. She wasn’t sure how Count Henry would react to one particular request, which had been dispatched by special messenger some days before they had set out.

  Her father had read the letter to Clare before he had affixed his seal to it, and the contents were never out of her mind.
Her father had written to Count Henry asking that, if Sir Arthur was agreeable, Count Henry would release him from his oath of fealty and permit him to return to Fontaine with Clare.

  Clare had found herself praying more fervently with each passing mile. Dear Lord, let Arthur accept me. Let him learn to love me.

  And now with Count Henry’s palace but a few streets away, she would soon be learning the Count’s decision.

  Would Arthur be waiting to greet her? She mustn’t expect it, he would surely be in the barracks with his men and the other Guardians. As she recalled, the barracks were behind the old Roman walls inside Troyes Castle, quite separate from the palace. In any case, her meeting with Arthur ought to wait.

  Duty—and the promise she had made to Nell—must come first.

  They rode towards the canal with Clare flanked on one side by her sister, and on the other by Sir Denis. Her status wasn’t the only thing that had changed since she was last in Troyes. She glanced warmly at her sister. She had gained some far more important riches along the way. ‘Francesca, it seems hard to believe, but I had no friends and no family until I came to Champagne. Now I am blessed with both. First there was Geoffrey—’

  ‘The knight who found you and brought you to Troyes?’

  Clare nodded. ‘And then there was Nicola and Nell, and then Aimée...’

  ‘You can’t forget Sir Arthur,’ Francesca said, giving her an arch look.

  Clare felt herself blush. ‘I have a father and—’ she reached across and gripped Francesca’s hand ‘—a sister.’

  Francesca might not be her sister by blood, but Clare liked her so much she had soon forgotten it. They were sisters in every way that mattered. On the road to Troyes, Clare hadn’t been the only one to have opened her heart. Francesca had repaid the compliment by opening hers, too.