Unveiling Lady Clare. Carol Townend

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      Gawain swore softly. ‘Dark girl. Shy.’

      ‘It’s not like you to mislay a woman.’ Arthur would have said more, but something in Gawain’s expression stopped him.

      Arthur had never seen Gawain look so down in the mouth. Surely he was not pining for a maid? Impossible. ‘What you need, my friend, is a visit to the Black Boar. They’ve got a new wench, name of Gabrielle—’

      Gawain laughed. To Arthur’s ears the sound was a trifle strained.

      ‘You’ve learned her name? She must be good.’

      ‘I tell you, Gawain, she’s a wonder. Very imaginative. The food’s as bad as ever, but they’ve just taken delivery of a barrel of wine from Count Henry’s vineyard. I’ve yet to taste better.’

      Gawain nodded. ‘The Black Boar this evening? Very well.’

      ‘Usual rules?’

      ‘Aye, the man with least points at the end of the joust must pay.’

      Arthur grinned. ‘Good man! I look forward to lightening your purse.’

      * * *

      Clare gripped Nell’s hand as they were ushered into the stands. Across the lists, the walls of Troyes Castle rose up like a rock face, glistening with frost. The sky was clear, the air crisp. Count Henry’s colours—blue, white and gold—were flying above the castle battlements amid a swirl of pigeons. Guards were stationed up there. A number of men had squeezed into the crenels—the gaps between the merlons—and were peering down at the field.

      ‘This entitles you to a seat on the front row, ma demoiselle,’ the boy said, as he took the token from Clare. He was wearing a blue tunic with a diagonal white band and golden embroidery brightened the cuffs of his sleeves. Count Henry’s colours again. This must be a castle page. Other pages in matching tunics were performing similar duties.

      Clare squeezed on to a bench with Nell jiggling about at her side like a fish in a hot skillet. Fearful that Nell might crush the gown of the woman next to her, Clare caught the woman’s eye and murmured an apology.

      Somewhat to her surprise, the woman gave Nell an indulgent smile. ‘It’s her first joust?’

      ‘Yes.’ Clare was reluctant to talk to strangers. They tended to exclaim about her odd eyes and sometimes that led to questions she was unable to answer. So she smiled and turned her gaze to the field.

      The knights’ pavilions were clustered in groups at either end of the lists. A forest of pennons rippled in the breeze—blue, green, red, purple... The knights on her right hand represented the Troyennes, whilst the team on her left was made up of visitors—Count Henry’s guests with a few volunteers from his retainers to swell the numbers. A cloying sweet perfume filled the air, fighting with other smells—with human sweat, with wood smoke, with roasting meat.

      Nell dug her in the ribs. ‘The blue tent is Lord d’Aveyron’s, is it not?’

      Nodding, Clare drew Nell’s attention to the pennon fluttering above the blue pavilion. ‘Can you see the black raven on Count Lucien’s pennon? Knights have different colours and devices so they can recognise each other when their visors are down.’

      ‘Yes!’ Nell’s forefinger began stabbing in all directions. ‘The pennon on the next tent has a wolf on it. And, look, there’s a green one with a unicorn. Whose is that? I like unicorns.’

      ‘I don’t know the knight’s name, but I’ve seen his colours about town. Maybe he is one of Count Henry’s Guardians.’

      ‘Geoffrey had a blue pennon with wiggly white lines on it,’ Nell said, wistfully. ‘He told me that white stands for silver.’

      Clare gave her a swift hug. ‘His friends will be jousting today.’

      Nell lapsed into a brief silence, but she was already smiling again, eyes eagerly darting this way and that, taking it all in. The teams were mustering at either end of the field.

      ‘Here come the horses! Look, Clare, they have colours, too.’

      ‘The destriers are caparisoned to match their knights.’

      Nell’s face was rapt. She looked so happy, Clare’s chest squeezed to see it.

      ‘My brother was a knight.’ Nell was on her feet, still jiggling, clinging to the handrail. Her voice rang with pride. With happiness.

      Children were extraordinary, Clare thought. They often coped with death far better than adults. At least on the outside. By God’s grace, Geoffrey’s death would not affect his little sister too badly. I am glad I brought her, she needed to see this. Nicola was right to insist that we came.

      * * *

      By the lance stands, Arthur took up his reins and patted Steel’s white neck. There was nothing like a joust to sharpen the mind. The ennui that had gripped him earlier had vanished, as it invariably did when he took to the saddle. There would be no bloodshed today, or very little. There would certainly be no guts. Count Henry had decreed that this Twelfth Night Joust was entirely for the ladies. Still, even a milk-and-water event like this was better than nothing, it was all practice.

      A light tinkling sound pulled Arthur’s gaze towards one of Count Henry’s household knights. The knight, Sir Gérard, was making up numbers on the team opposite. Bells? Surely not? But, yes, tiny bells were attached to his horse’s mane. Arthur held down a laugh.

      Sir Gérard was a favourite with the ladies in the Champagne court. As the marshal signalled, and the trumpets blared for the knights to line up for the review, Gérard let his horse prance and curvet in front of the main stand—the stand upon which Countess Marie de Champagne and Countess Isobel d’Aveyron were seated.

      The ladies cooed and sighed at Gérard. Arthur exchanged glances with Gawain and looked heavenwards. Gérard had flirtation with noblewomen down to a fine art and he was not one to waste the chance to strut about before a stand full of them.

      Countess Isobel was wearing the elaborate crown that proclaimed her Queen of the Tournament. The crown was counterfeit—like the Twelfth Night Joust it was all show and little substance. Coloured glass winked and flashed with Countess Isobel’s every move, and fake pearls gleamed. Notwithstanding her false bauble, Countess Isobel looked beautiful. Fair as an angel. Poised. Lord d’Aveyron had every reason to be proud of his new Countess.

      A drum roll had the crowd shouting with anticipation, reminding Arthur that this was a show for the people, too. He glanced at the townsfolk pressing up to the rope that ran along the other side of the lists.

      ‘Count Henry should have been a merchant,’ he murmured.

      Gawain frowned. ‘How so?’

      ‘He knows a joust will draw traffic and trade back to Troyes. No sooner does the town empty after the Winter Fair than he organises this. Clever.’

      The bells tinkled in the mane of Sir Gérard’s horse. The ladies tittered. At the edge of his vision, a blue scarf flickered in the stands.

      ‘Sir Gérard, wear my favour, if you please.’

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