Unveiling Lady Clare. Carol Townend

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      Chapter Three

      The girl, Clare, lingered in Arthur’s mind as he strode back to Troyes Castle. Her image wouldn’t shift from his brain—a small, slight girl with auburn hair and mismatched eyes. Mismatch. Who was she? Why did he feel he was missing some vital connection? Why did he feel that he should be better able to place her?

      Arthur found no answer, even though tendrils of auburn hair twined in and out of his thoughts as he went to the stables and called for his squire. That faintly accented, husky voice echoed in his mind. ‘Geoffrey mentioned a cave.’

      A cave—there was a chalk cave not far from Troyes...

      ‘Ivo?’

      ‘Sir?’

      ‘Patrol. Saddle up. You’re coming with me.’

      ‘Yes, sir. Where are we going?’

      ‘I want to study the lie of the land around that cave to the south.’

      ‘Shall I fetch your chain mail?

      ‘I only need my sword, we shan’t be making a show of ourselves. This is unofficial. Sir Raphael took the regular patrol.’

      Bright auburn tresses gleamed in the winter sun, invading Arthur’s every thought, as they trotted through the city gates. And not only her hair. Her eyes haunted him every step of the way. It was as though the fields and vineyards of Champagne were lost behind mist, the only reality was those eyes—one green, one grey. Mismatch.

      He had seen those eyes before. Where?

      No answer came while Arthur scoured the terrain about the cave. He was looking for tracks or burnt-out cooking fires. He found nothing of note but, oddly, his conviction strengthened. He had seen her before.

      ‘It will come,’ he muttered.

      ‘Sir?’

      ‘Ivo, have you noticed how the memory plays tricks? Sometimes when you are trying to recall something, it eludes you. And the moment you give up—’ he snapped his fingers ‘—the answer comes.’ Arthur felt himself flush. He must sound like a madman.

      Ivo simply nodded sagely at him. ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘It would be best if I put her out of my mind.’

      ‘Most likely, sir.’

      * * *

      None the less, Clare’s image had remained with him, accompanying him on the road that ran back to the city and into the stables. It had lingered at the back of his mind as he strode to the hall for his regular meeting with Count Henry. It even remained with him that evening as he pushed through the door of the Black Boar and Gabrielle swayed towards him, all bosom and big eyes.

      ‘Sir Arthur! What a pleasure to see you.’

      Most irritating of all, Clare’s image did not leave him as he wound his arm round Gabrielle’s soft waist and leaned in to kiss her.

      Mon Dieu! Why could he not remember?

      * * *

      The answer came the next day. Unfortunately, it came as Arthur was discussing the redeployment of his men with Count Henry in the solar of Troyes Castle.

      The Comte was sitting behind an array of quills and ink-pots. He had been going through his accounts, and scrolls and parchment littered the worktable like autumn leaves. He nudged a stool in Arthur’s direction. ‘Take a seat, Sir Arthur.’

      ‘My thanks. Mon seigneur, it’s my belief a gang of outlaws are in hiding somewhere beyond the city walls,’ Arthur said, going straight to the point. ‘And with the Twelfth Night Joust behind us, Troyes is as quiet as it gets. We can expand the reach of our patrols—widen our search to the county boundaries.’

      Count Henry looked narrowly at him. ‘You’ve heard something?’

      Arthur shook his head. ‘Nothing reliable, my lord. A friend tells me that outlaws could be hiding out in a nearby cave.’

      ‘A friend?’

      Arthur was reluctant to name Clare—she had made it clear she wanted nothing to do with this business. He couldn’t blame her, Geoffrey had been killed. Further, the lad’s death meant the women of her household had been left without a protector. ‘My friend values discretion.’

      Count Henry nodded and picked up his quill. ‘I understand. You have enough men?’

      ‘Yes, my lord.’

      ‘Very well. Let me know if you find anything.’

      ‘Of course.’ Arthur rose to leave, and checked as a name came crashing in on him. A name and a pair of eyes that mirrored Clare’s. ‘Count Myrrdin de Fontaine,’ he muttered. Mon Dieu! Could Clare be Count Myrrdin’s daughter? A by-blow, of course.

      Count Henry fiddled with his quill. ‘Count Myrrdin? What of him? I haven’t seen him in years.’

      Arthur СКАЧАТЬ