She clenched her jaw. She’d hoped for so much more.
It can’t end like this, I won’t let it!
If her testimony meant that much to him, she was going to have to be stronger than she had been in her life. Francesca was in the right—she was going to have to fight for him. She was going to have to speak out in Count Henry’s court.
* * *
She’s rejected me again. I shall have to forget her.
Arthur shouldered his way past Count Myrrdin’s guards without giving them so much as a nod. He strode straight for the castle. The stables. He would ride. Riding settled him, and if he had to ride until midnight to ease the ache in his guts, then so be it.
He threw the saddle on Steel, barked at the guards on the Preize Gate to allow him through, and was cantering down the road before the bell for Vespers rang out from the Cathedral.
She won’t have me. Why? She flings herself into my arms, responds to my kisses with an eagerness that matches mine, yet when I ask her to marry me she looks at me as though I had asked her to walk through fire.
Had her father found her a husband? It was possible. If Count Myrrdin had found her a husband, he was likely to be cut of a similar cloth to Count Tristan des Iles. He would have lands and revenues in his own name, and noble blood in his veins. The illegitimate son of an armourer wasn’t fit to be her husband—he’d been insane to think they might have a future together.
The sky was a black canopy lit by stars and the moon was so bright it made a white snake of the road. There was enough light for Arthur to give Steel his head. They thundered over the ground, storming past a mill and a scattering of outlying cottages. The ridges and furrows of the peasants’ field strips were stripy with moonlight, black and silver like the markings on Tristan le Beau’s shield.
She won’t have me.
Arthur scowled into the night. What he couldn’t fathom was the ease with which she had come into his arms. The apparent hunger of her response. Clare would never respond to a man in such a way if she didn’t want him. And she certainly shouldn’t have allowed him to kiss her if her father had chosen her husband.
Women! Would he ever understand them?
He wouldn’t ask her again.
In the half-light, trees cast eerie shadows. Arthur drove Steel in a wide loop until his stride began to shorten, then he allowed the pace to slacken and directed him towards the Paris Gate.
His time with Clare had been a dream, a beautiful dream, and he wanted to be able to recall it with pleasure. He shouldn’t sour his memory with bitterness because his dream of marriage had been a delusion.
He gritted his teeth. He was honest enough to realise that some anger remained. I could help her, if she would but let me. He wasn’t such a bad match. He had several years’ experience acting as Count Lucien’s steward at Ravenshold and had kept the estate going in the teeth of Count Lucien’s absence and Countess Morwenna’s ill health. It hadn’t been easy given the restrictions Count Lucien had placed upon him, but at the end of his time there, the lands had been bringing in more revenues than they had done when Lucien’s father had been Count d’Aveyron. And his lord had been satisfied enough to recommend him to Count Henry.
Lights were beginning to spark on the horizon, Arthur could see the dark line that was the city wall, and the flare of torches at the Paris Gate.
Clare would need help in the days and months to come and he knew he could give it. People would expect much of her. Would they give her time to adjust to the changes? He sighed. They would have to. He was confident she wouldn’t fail, but he wished he could have been at her side. He ached.
‘It is not to be.’ Clare—and her father—had other plans.
His mind a haze of confusion, anger and misery, Arthur shouted for the guards to open the gate. He rode on until, with a jolt, he saw the Black Boar. Lights winked behind the shutters. Gabrielle. Gabrielle. Everything came sharply, painfully, into focus. His guts twisted.
Time was when a visit to the Black Boar—and to Gabrielle—would have eased most ills. Not tonight. Swearing under his breath, Arthur realised that his old remedy had lost its efficacy, possibly for all time. He rode on, towards his pallet in the barracks.
* * *
‘Won’t you tell me what’s worrying you?’ Francesca asked, as they reached the top of the winding stair that led into the apartment. ‘You scarcely ate enough to keep a mouse alive.’
They had taken supper in the hall of Count Henry’s palace. Clare hadn’t seen Arthur, but then she hadn’t looked for him. The Captain of the Guardian Knights would surely eat in the hall in Troyes Castle, or else at the barracks.
‘I wasn’t hungry.’
The walls in the apartment were covered with hangings of various woodland scenes. Clare’s gaze lingered on a white unicorn—it had been garlanded with flowers and a ring of girls with linked hands were dancing around it.
‘You look like misery itself. Clare, what’s wrong? What did Sir Arthur have to say?’
‘He asked for my help and I refused him.’
‘What on earth did he want?’
‘He wants me to testify when the slavers come to trial. He doesn’t expect it, but he wants it.’ Clare sighed. She’d decided not to mention Arthur’s proposal of marriage. It would prompt a flood of questions she wasn’t prepared to answer until after the trial. ‘My refusal caused great offence.’
Francesca went to the window seat, dragged a cushion to the floor in front of the fire and sank on to it. She patted the cushion in invitation and Clare went to join her.
‘It would help Arthur if I testified,’ Clare said. ‘He would win favour with his lord.’
Francesca looked pensive. ‘I think Sir Arthur already has Count Henry’s favour, he wouldn’t be his Captain otherwise. And I hear that his previous lord, Lucien d’Aveyron, rated him highly.’
‘Oh?’ Clare’s interest quickened. ‘Papa told me that Ravenshold—Count Lucien’s Champagne holding—was derelict at the end of Arthur’s tenure. I knew Papa must be mistaken and it’s good to hear you confirm it.’
Francesca gave her a knowing smile. ‘You’re going to testify.’
‘Yes.’ Colour rising, Clare stared at the unicorn on the wall hanging. ‘But there’s something—something unpleasant—that may come to light when I do. That’s what’s been holding me back. It’s bound to change the way people think about me. Papa will be shocked. You will be, too...’
‘That sounds worrying. What is it?’
Clare hesitated. ‘It...it’s something I have done. And...oh, Francesca, I couldn’t bear to lose your regard.’ And if I lost Arthur’s regard it would be even worse. It turns me inside out to see that I have disappointed him. How much worse will it be if I lose his regard permanently?
Francesca looked steadily at her. ‘I can’t believe you can have done anything that would make me hate you.’ Her mouth went up at one side and she took Clare’s hand. ‘Surely you know that? You deprived me of a county and our friendship still blossomed.’
Clare drew back, sharply. ‘Have I been mistaken in you? I thought you had forgiven me. Please say you have. I couldn’t bear to think otherwise.’
‘Don’t be a goose. I was angry at first, naturally. But I was upset about the wrong things. The important things are these...Papa loves me...I have gained a sister.’ Francesca gave her hand a warm squeeze. ‘And, quite frankly, the idea of coming to blows with Tristan over the best way to run Fontaine filled me with horror.’
Clare’s eyes widened. ‘You would have come to blows?’
‘If you’d met Tristan, you’d know what I mean. Tristan has...strong views. And very set ideas as to how a county should be run. Clare, traditions in Fontaine go back for years, Tristan might not have respected them. I am happy to hand Fontaine over to you. Besides, Tristan has enough land of his own. You may h
ave Fontaine, with my blessing.’
‘Truly?’
‘Truly. Clare, I’ve learned to love you. Whatever you’re hiding, our friendship will withstand it. And as for Papa—already he adores you. He will stand by you.’
Clare’s eyes filled. ‘You can’t know how much I value your goodwill.’
‘Clare?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Won’t you tell me what it is that you have done? You might find it helps.’
Firmly, Clare shook her head. ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’
* * *
Henry, Count of Champagne, was in the habit of dispensing justice from a painted and cushioned throne that stood high on the dais in the great hall of Troyes Castle.
Court was in session as Clare arrived. Francesca and Sir Denis accompanied her and she paused in the doorway to take stock, gripping the skirts of her simple grey gown as though her life depended on it. She had chosen to dress modestly for the hearing. Her hair was covered by a plain white veil.
Lest anyone should be in any doubt as to Count Henry’s authority, the colours of Champagne—blue, silver and gold—were emblazoned on a pair of tasselled standards hanging behind him. Heavy wooden beams arched overhead. One side of the roof was busy with the colours of Count Henry’s household knights and the facing rafters were bright with those of his Guardians. A fiery dragon glared at the black head of a wolf; a silver fish fluttered before a green tree...
Benches were filled with noblemen in lavishly embroidered tunics. A row of liveried pages lined the walls, and a troop of knights stood at the ready, hands on their sword hilts. Clare found herself seeking out one man—Captain Arthur Ferrer.
The Captain was on his feet near his lord’s right hand, reading from a parchment. Formally attired with a green surcoat over his chain mail, he stood out on account of his height. The unicorn on his tunic must have been sewn with silver thread, for it sparkled when he moved.
Arthur’s dark head was turned towards two men standing in fetters before the court. One of them was immediately recognisable as the Veronese. Clare reached for Francesca, but in truth she was astonished at how little she needed her support. Shouldn’t the sight of the Veronese send her heart to her throat? Shouldn’t she be breaking out in a cold sweat? Neither of these things was happening. Her mind felt cool and calm. Clear. She glanced towards Arthur who, reading from the parchment, had yet to notice her. No matter. She knew what she had to do.
‘These men stand accused of abduction and slavery,’ Arthur was saying. He ran through a list of indictments which included kidnapping, theft, breaking the peace and using violence against Count Henry’s officers on the Count’s highway. ‘My lord, a number of witnesses are prepared to attest to the fact that children were snatched from the streets of Troyes.’ He paused. ‘Unfortunately, we have no proof as to what would have been their fate had they not been rescued. None the less, it is my firm belief that these men are slavers.’ A choked oath came from the Veronese, but Arthur swept on. ‘It is also my belief that the children were to have been taken to Verona and they would eventually have ended up as slaves.’
A ripple of shock ran round the hall.
‘You’re lying!’ The Veronese glared balefully at Arthur. ‘Where’s your proof?’
‘Why else steal children?’ Arthur asked, his mouth a grim line. ‘You were transporting them from Champagne to sell them abroad as slaves.’
The Veronese sneered. ‘This is a tissue of lies. Has anyone been enslaved? Where are your witnesses?’
Holding Francesca’s arm, Clare moved slowly into the hall. Arthur had seen her. She felt the weight of his gaze, but forced herself to focus on Count Henry. At the foot of the dais, she and her sister sank into deep curtsies.
‘Countess Francesca, Lady Clare,’ Count Henry inclined his head at them. ‘As you see, court is in session. Do you care to watch?’
Clare had spoken with Count Henry a number of times since her return to Troyes. Naturally, she had wanted to meet Arthur’s liege lord, but far more importantly she had wanted to sound him out on his reaction to the letter her father had sent him from Brittany. She liked the Count very much, even though he had refused to be drawn on whether or not he would permit Arthur to leave his service.
‘Thank you, my lord.’ Clare drew in a breath. ‘But if it pleases you, I have something to add which may alter the course of proceedings. I do not come to watch, I come to give evidence.’
A surprised murmuring broke out, then faded.
‘Please, my lady, continue.’
‘Count Henry, I believe I am the witness Sir Arthur has been looking for.’ She allowed herself a brief glance in Arthur’s direction and saw a welter of emotions flicker across those lean features. Confusion...pride...triumph...
Count Henry drew his head back. ‘You, my lady?’
Clare lifted her chin. Her hands were shaking, but her calm had not deserted her. ‘Count Henry,’ she said, pleased at the strength in her voice even as she pointed rather shakily at the Veronese, ‘that man is a slaver. I have watched him sell many poor souls into slavery.’
The Veronese began to splutter. ‘She’s lying!’
Vaguely, Clare was conscious of Arthur moving to stand at her side. ‘Bravo, my lady.’ His murmur was soft and for her ears alone. ‘Bravo.’
The Count looked at her. ‘My lady...?’
Clare took another deep breath and it all tumbled out. From her first memory in Apulia; to the beatings her mistress had received from her husband; to the slaves who were worked half to death on her master’s estate...
Count Henry interrupted her. ‘Where did you say these things took place?’
‘I ended up in Apulia, my lord. Near Trani.’
‘She’s lying, the bitch is lying!’ the Veronese choked out. ‘I come from Verona and even an idiot would know that Verona is miles from Trani.’
‘The trade routes extend a long way, my lord,’ Clare said, quietly.
‘She’s lying!’
Arthur fixed him with a look. ‘It is you who are the liar in this hall.’
‘The bitch is the liar, you can’t believe a word she says! She’s the one who should be on trial, not me. There’s a price on her head. In Apulia that woman—’ chains chinked as the Veronese pointed at her ‘—is wanted for attempted murder. Attempted murder, do you hear me? She—’
‘Silence!’ A ripple ran round the assembly as Count Henry pushed to his feet. ‘You are speaking to Lady Clare de Fontaine, the daughter of Count Myrrdin of Brittany.’
The Veronese blanched. ‘Count Myrrdin’s daughter?’
‘Just so.’ Count Henry gestured at a guard. ‘Sergeant, take these men back to the dungeon. These proceedings will continue later.’ Turning to Clare, he offered her his arm. ‘Lady Clare, if you would be so good as to accompany me to the solar, I should be grateful for your counsel.’
Clare put her hand on Count Henry’s sleeve. ‘It will be my pleasure, my lord.’
‘This way if you please.’ Count Henry led her towards the stairs and lowered his voice. ‘I would hear your full testimony before coming to judgement. And I will do so in private. Sir Arthur, would you care to accompany us?’
Chapter Sixteen
Arthur watched the gentle sway of Clare’s hips as she mounted the turning stairs ahead of him. He was stunned by her bravery—bravery he recognised as being of the highest order. If his men faced their foes—their fears—with such courage, Champagne would be cleared of outlaws in a trice.
Clare stood accused of attempted murder. It was incredible. Unbelievable. She would never murder anyone. And yet...learning that charges had been laid against her in Apulia explained so much. She had anticipated what would happen when she faced the Veronese—she had been reluctant to testify because she knew what would be hurled in h
er face. Attempted murder—Mon Dieu!
Not once since he had known her had he seen her do anything remotely cruel. She was the soul of kindness. She had cared for Nicola and Nell, and her warm heart had won over her sister in the most trying of circumstances...
Clare? A murderess? Impossible. He wouldn’t want to marry a woman who—
His breath caught. Was this what she had been trying to tell him at Aimée’s house? Dark accusations had been laid against her. He racked his brains to remember exactly what she’d said.
I asked her to marry me and she said...no, she didn’t actually say anything...
She’d looked startled. And desperately worried. She’d been trying to tell him about the charges, she’d wanted him to know. Yes, that fitted. Clare hadn’t been brought up a lady, but she had her own code of honour—she wouldn’t be able to accept him without telling him everything.
Mon Dieu. No wonder she’d been digging her heels in about appearing in court. She’d known exactly what the Veronese would say. If only he’d listened.
Arthur followed Clare and the Count into the solar and latched the door. He felt dreadful. Guilty. I should have heard her out.
‘Clare?’ He managed a quiet aside as they moved to the fire. ‘I failed you, and I want you to know how sorry I am.’
She looked at him, her expression arrested. ‘You failed me?’
‘You knew what would happen if you appeared in court. You knew what the slaver would say.’
Her throat worked and she nodded.
‘You must have been eaten up with worry for months.’
‘Years.’
Arthur clenched his jaw. The fear that she might at any moment be caught and dragged back to the scene of her slavery must have weighed on her like a millstone. He should have been there to support her—instead, he had tried to browbeat the poor woman into testifying.
Guilt was tearing him apart. He’d failed her. Walking into that court had been the last thing she’d wanted to do and yet she had done it. Why? Because he’d asked her? Her appearance in court must count for something, he would hang on to that. He loved this woman and it was beginning to look as though she had faced her fears for him. He would win her yet.
Unveiling Lady Clare Page 24
