‘We mustn’t be long, a friend of mine is singing tonight,’ he said, waving Lady Rowena through the door. ‘I don’t want to miss her performance.’
Gawain had to admit he was curious to hear Elise sing in public. She was such a shy, delicate creature; it was hard to imagine her singing before a hall full of people. However, she had clearly worked for her moment of glory and he wanted to witness it. He wanted to be there to applaud her.
Lady Rowena lifted her skirts in one hand as they stepped out into the courtyard. The sky was on fire with crimson and gold. Swifts arched overhead. ‘You know Blanchefleur le Fay, my lord?’
‘Blanchefleur le Fay?’
‘You must have heard of her. The famous chanteuse from the south. I was told she’s performing tonight.’
‘I know little about the world of the troubadour, my lady.’
‘That is understandable. You are a warrior.’
Gawain shrugged. ‘Be that as it may, I believe my friend is less well-known.’
‘You must point her out to me when she performs.’
‘Certainly.’
The courtyard was small and already lit by flaring torches. There were steps leading down to the canal. Linking arms with Lady Rowena, Gawain walked her to the top of the steps. The water gleamed like polished jet. A bat flittered out of nowhere and vanished again. Spotting a stone bench, Gawain headed for it. Lady Rowena’s skirts swished as they sat down.
He took a deep breath. ‘My lady, I need to know your heart.’
‘My lord?’
‘Is our betrothal to your liking?’
‘Why, of course.’ She was looking at him as though he’d run mad. ‘The King... My father—’
‘Yes, yes, they endorse the match, but is it to your liking?’ He drew in a breath. ‘My lady, what I am trying to ask you is whether you think you could come to like me?’
‘I already like you, Lord Gawain.’
‘I am not sure you have caught my meaning.’
‘My lord?’
Slowly, so as not to make her even more skittish, Gawain reached for her. ‘I believe we should put it to the test.’
She didn’t resist. Gawain started with a chaste peck on her cheek and drew his head back to study her reaction. She was sitting motionless on the bench, one hand curled round its edge as though for support. ‘All right so far?’
‘Ye...es.’
He shifted closer and managed a light peck on her lips. He lingered, but not for long. There was no touching of tongues. He was too conscious of that hand clinging to the bench. She was utterly rigid. A bundle of sticks would feel more welcoming. ‘And that?’
‘That’s fine too.’ Her eyes were screwed tightly shut, but she kept her head tilted towards him as though in anticipation of another kiss. Clearly, some attempt had been made to tutor her on what might be expected. Unfortunately, there was no question as to her response. She didn’t like him, not in that way. Gawain told himself that she might warm to him in time. He wasn’t confident that he would warm to her. He would give it one more try. He liked Lady Rowena, but he’d hoped for a little warmth in his marriage.
Gently, he ran his finger down her cheek. ‘My lady, open your eyes.’
Wide, wary eyes fluttered open.
‘Put your hand on my shoulder.’ She didn’t resist as he removed her hand from its death grip on the bench and placed it on his shoulder. Her other hand was clenched into a fist between them. Fearing she might make a bolt for it, he let her other hand alone. Taking her chin, he placed his lips on hers and immediately pulled back.
His stomach hollowed out. She was terrified—he could almost smell the fear. He wasn’t used to women reacting to his advances in this way. It left him with a bitter taste in his mouth. Saints preserve him. His uncle had wished for this alliance. The King approved the match. What was he to do? Was a little warmth too much to expect?
‘Relax, my lady. I will not hurt you.’
She hung her head and her veil trembled. Her hand fell from his shoulder and she gripped the cross at her neck. ‘I have displeased you, Lord Gawain, and I am sorry. I swear I will try to please you in our marriage. I want to be a good wife.’
‘I am sure you will be.’ He smiled and sat back. It was galling to see how she breathed more easily with him at a distance. ‘My lady, if you are planning to travel to your father’s estate I should be honoured to escort you. Count Faramus and I have much to discuss.’
‘Of course. Lord Gawain, if you are in agreement, I thought I might set out tomorrow.’
Gawain nodded. ‘Tomorrow suits me well.’
Rising, he extended his hand to her. ‘Come, let us return to the hall.’
The hall was full of applause, so much that it seemed the roof must surely be raised. A chanteuse in a gold gown was taking up position in front of the fire. The lute-player Baderon was already seated on a stool to one side of the hearth.
Gawain checked again, almost tripping over the rushes as he headed for the dais. Baderon.
It was Elise in the golden gown. Thank God he hadn’t missed her performance. He blinked at her through a haze of candlelight. Her gown was dazzling. It set off her dark beauty to perfection. He ached to look at her. Gawain knew this ache. He’d felt it often with Elise. This was longing. The light from the fire behind silhouetted her beautiful, womanly shape—that slender waist, the soft curve of her hips. Lord, he wanted her. His lips twisted as he understood that the image of Elise standing before the hearth in Count Henry’s palace would be burned into his memory for all time.
He told himself that it was the gold gown that made him feel this way. It was just the shimmer of her veil and gown. She looked ethereal, as though sprinkled with fairy dust. In it, she was utterly bewitching. He was not the only one to be so affected. About him, men and women alike were staring at her, mouths open, breath suspended. Lord, Queen Cleopatra of Egypt would have killed to own a gown like that.
Swallowing hard, Gawain reminded himself that he was not free and that he must not shame the King’s goddaughter before half the nobility of Christendom. He must follow the protocols and do the right thing. Tearing his gaze from Elise, he caught Lady Rowena’s arm, halting her progress towards the dais. ‘My lady, there is the friend I mentioned earlier.’
Lady Rowena looked towards the fire and her brow wrinkled. ‘The lady in gold?’
‘Her name is Elise.’
‘But my lord, that is the renowned chanteuse that the whole town is talking about. That is Blanchefleur le Fay.’
‘Blanchefleur le Fay,’ Gawain muttered, frowning at Lady Rowena’s back as she proceeded ahead of him towards their places. The name didn’t mean much to him. ‘I didn’t realise. This Blanchefleur is very well-known?’
She looked back. ‘Blanchefleur le Fay is fêted throughout the southern territories. From Poitiers to Carcassonne lords have been known to fight to get her to perform for them. I understand Countess Marie has been eager to hear her for some time. Count Henry has been hoping she would sing here for years.’
‘He has?’ When they were both seated, Gawain looked across the tables towards the fire. Elise happened to be looking his way and their eyes met. Gawain was conscious of Lady Rowena chattering about the famous Blanchefleur le Fay, but he barely heard her. His mind was in ferment. Elise was renowned—so renowned that Count Henry had wanted her to perform here for years. Dimly, he heard his betrothed telling him that Blanchefleur had performed before the Queen of England.
Elise never told me how famous she was. Gawain could understand her not confiding in him last year when she’d come to Champagne purely to learn how her sister had died, but she’d no reason not to mention it now. He liked to think that she had a fondness for him. Elise had always struck him as an intensely private person and he’d assumed that she would never have come t
o his bed unless she’d felt a strong passion for him. Warmth. The same warmth he wanted in his marriage. He scowled. He would swear there had been genuine warmth between him and Elise—but why had she never mentioned her fame?
‘Of course,’ Lady Rowena rattled on, ‘when she vanished so mysteriously at the beginning of the year, this merely added to her mystique.’
Gawain forced himself to get a grip on what Lady Rowena was saying. ‘When she vanished? Who? Who are you talking about? Are you referring to the Queen of England?’
Queen Eleanor had disappeared the previous year and word had only just got out that she had been kidnapped by her own husband. If the rumour was true, the Queen was presently confined in England.
‘No, my lord, I’m talking about your friend Blanchefleur. It’s clear you don’t know her as well as you think. Blanchefleur vanished in the spring and her disappearance caused almost as many ripples as Queen Eleanor’s. Some said that Blanchefleur had retired from singing. Others swore that she truly was a fairy and had been spirited off to another world.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’ Gawain snorted even as Lady Rowena’s words shivered through him. It’s clear you don’t know her as well as you think. He stared at the golden figure in front of the fire. How well did he know her? He’d thought she was shy and retiring, yet here she was about to sing before a hall packed with people. Secrets surrounded her—never mind her success as a singer, she’d been slow to tell him about Pearl, and then there was this business with the counterfeiters.
None the less, one thing was clear. Blanchefleur’s so-called disappearance must have coincided with the time of her confinement. She would have had to stop singing for that. ‘Blanchefleur le Fay is a real woman,’ he said. ‘She’s flesh and blood.’ She has had a child, my child.
Lady Rowena laughed. ‘You can’t have heard her sing.’
‘Not before an audience.’ Elise had sung privately for him though, and Gawain had to admit that although he was not a musical man, he had been moved.
‘You will see, my lord. Blanchefleur le Fay is a heartbreaker. When she starts to sing, you will see.’
Chapter Nine
Elise stood before the hall fire. She was dizzy with the heat even though the fire was low—it had been lit to give light rather than warmth. Her pulse raced as she resisted the urge to move further into the great hall. This was where she had been told to stand, next to Baderon.
Perspiration beaded Elise’s brow and her palms felt damp. Panicky chills ran down her back. Nerves. She smiled in the general direction of the dais. It was odd how minor discomforts became large before a performance. It happened every time. Her nerves were on edge because she must pour her soul, all of it, into her singing. It wasn’t easy. She had to allow herself to feel and tonight there were too many feelings. Some of them were far from pretty. The hall was packed with people, yet she was conscious of only one man.
God help me.
Elise kept her gaze unfocused. It was a mercy that Baderon was experienced enough to lead her into the song without her having to look at the top table. Baderon would see Count Henry’s signal. Count Henry was sitting too close to Gawain for Elise to risk looking in that direction again. She was afraid of what might happen. So many emotions were rolling about inside her, it was a struggle to hold them. Love. Anger and fear. Regret. Jealousy. Elise started to shake. These feelings were a gift, she told herself firmly, they must be contained. These feelings must be felt—she would need them when she sang.
A thousand butterflies were trapped in Elise’s stomach, but she ignored them. She was holding a spray of wild roses to her breast. Deliberately, she pressed her thumb against a thorn. It was needle sharp. Elise allowed herself to fully absorb the tiny stab of the thorn—it would keep her mind on the songs. It would stop her attention drifting towards the handsome, fair-haired knight sitting on the dais.
She’d seen him slip back into the hall with Lady Rowena. Lady Rowena’s cheeks had been as pink as the setting sun. There was no doubt in Elise’s mind as to what they’d been doing—kissing. Composedly, Lady Rowena had taken her place at the board and now she was chattering away nineteen to the dozen while Gawain sat beside her, twirling a princely silver goblet round and round.
A hush fell. A bench creaked and the hush seemed to deepen. Elise drew in a deep breath and in a heartbeat she was no longer Elise, she was Blanchefleur.
Blanchefleur exchanged glances with her lute-player. She kept her thumb on the thorn. This was for Gawain. As the first notes led her into the song, her training took over. In order to give the impression she was singing for the Count and Countess of Champagne, she looked towards the griffin on the wall hanging behind the dais. The griffin was a blur.
As Blanchefleur, Elise sang about Tristan and Isolde and of love won and lost. She sang about betrayal. Emotion poured out of her in a great rush of feeling. She became the song. It was in her chest, in every bone of her body. Her voice rang round the hall, strong and true. When Blanchefleur sang the last note and lowered her gaze, the applause was deafening. If André had been beside her, he would have been grinning from ear to ear.
Elise’s heart thundered in her chest and a new emotion was added to the others roiling about inside her. Triumph. Her first song was a triumph!
She wasn’t given time to enjoy it. The applause died away and save for the crackling of the fire, there was silence. People had stopped eating—they were looking at her with bated breath, hungry for song instead of food. So she nodded at Baderon and he launched into an epic about Roland’s last battle at Roncevaux. Elise smiled. She knew the menfolk loved songs about heroes.
Blanchefleur sang about life and death, about courage and cowardice. About the terrible and beautiful frailty that was humankind. Ladies clapped; soldiers drummed their heels on the floor. The rushes rustled; the dogs barked. Success was a heady feeling, stronger than wine.
Elise’s blood thrummed in every vein. Then came that expectant hush and Elise gathered herself for the final, most testing song—the story of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere. She sang about forgiveness and aching loss. She sang of true love. Her heart felt as though it would burst. Every joy had its cost. She sang through the pain.
* * *
As the last plangent notes died away, Gawain found he had a lump in his throat the size of a gull’s egg. Down the hall, the dazzle of gold that was Elise seemed momentarily lost in a fog. Blinking rapidly, Gawain cleared his throat. He would be the first to admit he didn’t have a musical bone in his body, but even he could tell that Elise’s voice was exceptional. Who would have thought she had the power to fill a hall this large with so wondrous a sound? Briefly, everyone at the feast had been transported: Cornwall, Roncevaux, Caerleon... And she’d made it seem easy.
Lady Rowena turned her head as the applause and drumming shook their table. Smiling shyly, she looked closely at him. ‘I told you she was a heartbreaker. Even you are moved. Confess it.’
Gawain had lost the use of his tongue. He could only nod. And watch. The performance was clearly over and a stampede was taking place around the fireside.
Elise—Blanchefleur le Fay—was being mobbed by admirers, most of whom were male. Her eyes were bright and wild. She looked exhilarated by her performance. Lady Rowena had put her finger on it when she had said he didn’t know Elise as well as he’d thought. Plainly he didn’t know her at all. This—being mobbed by admirers—must have happened many times before.
Elise was moving towards the corridor, her smile dazzling enough to light the whole of Champagne. She was accepting many tokens—flowers, ribbons, trinkets. One of Count Henry’s pages rushed to carry them. The crowd surged around her and Gawain found himself staring at a dozen men’s backs. He glimpsed one man thrusting a ring on to her finger. The man must be high in her favour for she touched his arm and bent close. Briefly her face filled with sympathy. What
she said to the man, Gawain would never know, but the man trailed after her when she went into the corridor. A cherry-coloured ribbon was wound round the sleeve of his tunic.
Sir Olier! Setting the silver-gilt goblet on to the board with a thud, Gawain swore under his breath and shoved back his chair. ‘Excuse me a moment, my lady, I would like to congratulate Blanchefleur le Fay personally on her performance. I won’t be long.’
Anger burned in Gawain’s breast. Anger blinded him. Anger was all there was. Gawain prided himself on his control, but he hardly saw anything as he stumbled after Sir Olier. He got to the corridor in time to see the page and Sir Olier enter a side chamber. Gawain followed.
The chamber was small. Overcrowded. Elise was directing the page to put her offerings on a chest. Her hand, Gawain noticed, was trembling—she was elated after her performance. Still on edge. Likely it would take a while for her to return to earth. Baderon was sitting on a stool turning a peg on his lute and Sir Olier—bruises and all—was smiling adoringly at Elise.
Gawain clenched his fists, caught the page’s eye and jerked his head in the direction of the door. ‘You,’ he said, ‘out.’
The page shot him a look and obeyed.
Gawain walked up to Sir Olier. ‘You have finished your conversation with Blanchefleur, I believe.’
‘But, my lord—’
Gawain looked at him and Sir Olier recoiled. Gawain grappled for calm. ‘You may speak to her later.’
Elise shifted. Gawain almost bit his tongue when she touched Sir Olier’s arm—the arm that bore her cherry-coloured ribbon.
‘Sir Olier, I look forward to speaking to you later,’ she said.
Sir Olier gave a brusque harrumph and when the door had closed behind him Elise sighed. ‘Gawain, what on earth—’
Gawain turned to Baderon and gave another curt jerk of his head. ‘You too, Baderon. Out.’
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