Unveiling Lady Clare. Carol Townend

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      Chapter One

      January 1174—Lodgings in the merchants’ quarter of Troyes, in the County of Champagne.

      It was mild for January, and the shutters were open to make the most of the light. As Clare helped Nicola to move from her cot to the bench by the table, she was given a warm smile. Clare’s heart lifted—Nicola was weak and ill, and her smiles were precious.

      ‘I see you had a visitor while I was at market,’ Clare said.

      Nicola grunted and eased back against the planked wall. ‘So I did, and it wasn’t just any visitor, it was a nobleman. A nobleman with a gift. It’s of no use to me, but you and Nell might enjoy it. I wanted to tell you before I told Nell. There’s no point in getting her overexcited if you refuse to take her. I know how you fret every time you leave the house.’

      ‘A gift?’ Clare settled a blanket around Nicola’s knees. Whoever Nicola’s mysterious visitor had been—Count Lucien, perhaps?—he had clearly done her good. Nicola’s eyes were brighter than they had been in months, she almost looked happy. Clare waited, Nicola would soon confirm the identity of her visitor—since Geoffrey’s death, there had been no secrets between them. ‘You are comfortable? If you’re in a draught, I can close that shutter.’

      ‘Lord, no, leave it open, there’s little enough light at this time of year.’

      Clare removed the simple linen veil she invariably wore when going to market, and hung it on the hook, over her cloak. A strand of copper-coloured hair swung forwards. As she hooked it back into its plait, she glanced at the fire. It was burning low. A thin blue haze wound up to a vent in the rafters. ‘Shall I build up the fire?’

      ‘Clare, I’m fine. Save the wood until evening.’

      Nodding, Clare lifted a basket on to the table and began to unload it. Flour. Cheese. A handful of withered pears. Onions. Dried beans. And, thanks to the generosity of Geoffrey’s liege lord, Count Lucien, some salt pork and dried fish.

      ‘No eggs?’ Nicola asked.

      ‘The price was madness. I’ll try again tomorrow, although I fear they won’t be cheap until spring.’ She glanced at Nicola. ‘Well? What is this mysterious gift?’

      Nicola fumbled in her purse and slapped a coin on the table.

      ‘Money.’ Despite herself, Clare’s voice was flat. ‘Lord d’Aveyron has been here again.’

      Every time Clare thought of Lucien Vernon, Count d’Aveyron, she couldn’t help but remember Geoffrey’s folly. His recklessness. Geoffrey had made some devil’s pact with a gang of thieves. Clare knew he had done it to help his mother—before his death he had confessed the whole. She also knew that Geoffrey had lived to regret it. He had tried to make amends, but the moment he had tried to wriggle out of the arrangement, he had signed his own death warrant. The thieves had killed him.

      Clare knew about Geoffrey’s dealings with outlaws, as did Count Lucien. Nicola, on the other hand, did not—she lived in happy ignorance of her son’s fatal lapse of judgement. And as far as Clare was concerned, that was exactly how it should be. Nicola wouldn’t learn of Geoffrey’s shame from her—in her fragile state, it would likely kill her. Thus far, Count Lucien hadn’t breathed a word about Geoffrey’s transgression, but Clare dreaded his visits. Geoffrey had been one of Count Lucien’s household knights, and she was afraid that one day, the Count would let something slip...

      ‘There’s no need to look like that,’ Nicola said, sliding the coin towards her. ‘The Count is a good man, and he honours Geoffrey’s memory by keeping an eye on his mother. This isn’t money. Look closely.’

      Setting the pears in a wooden bowl, Clare reached for the coin and saw that it wasn’t a coin at all. It was larger than a penny and made of lead rather than silver. ‘It’s a token.’

      ‘Yes.’

      A picture of Troyes Castle was stamped solidly on one face; on the other was the image of a knight charging at full tilt. Clare’s stomach tightened and she put the token back on the table with a decisive snap. ‘I hope that’s not what I think it is.’

      Some of the light went out of Nicola’s eyes. ‘That token gives entry to the stands at the Twelfth Night Joust—the seated area near the ladies. Clare, I thought...’ Nicola paused ‘...I hoped you’d want to go. Particularly if you had a seat on the ladies’ benches. You’d be safe there.’

      Clare stared at the coin and repressed the urge to take a swift step backwards. The Twelfth Night Joust. Ever since the year had turned, the town had been talking of little else. ‘I can’t go.’

      ‘It would do you good. The only time you leave the house is when you go to market. I thought—’

      ‘Nicola, I go to market because we would starve if I didn’t, I don’t go because I like it.’

      ‘You’re afraid to go abroad, even after all this time.’

      Clare’s chin went up. ‘Wouldn’t you be, if you were me?’

      Nicola shook her head and sighed. ‘Yes. No. I don’t know.’ Her gaze sharpened. ‘I do know that you’re young and you can’t hide for ever. I thought you were happy here.’

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