Unveiling Lady Clare. Carol Townend

will help you, she will always help you.’

      Nell looked at her as though she had grown horns. ‘I know that, silly.’

      Smile wobbling, Clare straightened and made a shooing gesture with her hands.

      ‘See you later,’ Nell said and skipped away.

      Throat tight, Clare watched her go. Keeping her head down and her hood up, she walked swiftly past the two men and slipped into an alley between the houses. It was dank and shadowy, more of a gutter than an alley—the ground was soggy with moss. Her mind raced as she hurried along. She knew exactly what she must do.

      She had money left over from market, Nicola would not begrudge her it. First she would find a scribe and get a note to Sir Arthur. He would see that Nicola and Nell were safe. Then she would buy bread and then she would leave.

      What she didn’t know was where she would go. It was January, nights were bone-achingly cold, but there was one blessing—she was wearing her cloak.

      * * *

      Arthur was crossing the yard in front of the garrison gatehouse when a sentry hailed him. ‘Captain Ferrer, there’s a message for you.’ The sentry went into the guardhouse and emerged with a scrap of vellum.

      ‘My thanks.’ Arthur frowned at the vellum. He’d told Clare to send word if she needed help, but not for one moment had he thought she would heed him. Yet he could think of no one else who would contact him in this way. ‘Who brought this, did you see them?’

      ‘Local scribe, sir. Pierre Chenay.’

      Arthur unrolled the scroll. It was the briefest of letters, a few lines, no more. Glancing at the bottom, he saw that it had indeed been sent by Clare. The letter began formally, it was obvious it had been penned by a scribe, though the language was stripped of the traditional flowery sentiments. She wouldn’t have had money for those...

      Most honoured knight,

      You were kind to Nell at the Twelfth Night Joust and I thank you for it. I hope to impose further upon your kindness. I am leaving Troyes. As you are aware, Nell’s mother is ailing. I think she will soon be leaving this world for a higher place. The Count and Countess d’Aveyron have most graciously helped Nicola and Nell in the past, and I am writing to ask that you will inform them that I can no longer care for them. Count Lucien and Countess Isobel will see to their needs, I know.

      My heartfelt thanks,

      With all good wishes,

      Your servant, Clare

      At the bottom, next to where the scribe had written her name, there was an awkwardly formed cross and a large ink blot. She wouldn’t be used to holding a quill.

      Stupid woman, what was she doing leaving town when Geoffrey’s family had such need of her? Had the outlaws approached her? Had she been bullied into leaving?

      Crushing the message into a ball, Arthur shoved it in his pouch. There was a cold lump in his belly.

      ‘When did this arrive?’

      ‘Not half an hour since, Captain.’

      Arthur forced himself to relax. Half an hour. She’d be on foot—she couldn’t have got far in half an hour and he’d be able to track her, whichever road she’d taken. He was on the point of retracing his steps to inform Count Henry of what had happened when it occurred to him she might not yet have left her lodgings.

      * * *

      Arthur raised his hand to knock at the door. Inside, a child was crying. Nell. Lord. He knocked hard and the crying cut off. A bolt squealed and the door opened. Nell’s face, puffy with tears, appeared in the crack.

      ‘Sir Arthur!’ Sniffling, Nell wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

      ‘Holà, Nell.’ The child’s woebegone face told him that Clare had already left, but he had to ask. ‘May I speak to Clare?’

      ‘She’s not here.’ Nell’s eyes filled. ‘Mama says she’s gone away. Mama says—’

      ‘Nell?’ a faint voice cut in. ‘Let Sir Arthur enter, if you please.’

      Arthur bowed his head under the lintel and stepped into the room. It had been a while since he’d set foot in lodgings as basic as this. Smoke from a fire at the back filled the low-ceilinged room with smoke. A kettle sat on the hearth and a small clay pot lay slightly askew among the embers, steaming gently. Clothes were drying on a crooked clothes-rack.

      Nell’s sick mother, Nicola, lay on a cot by the fire. And she did look sick. The light was poor, but not so poor that Arthur couldn’t see that her eyes had sunk deep into their sockets. The skin over her cheekbones was wafer-thin.

      Age-spotted hands plucked at the blankets. ‘Sir Arthur Ferrer?’

      ‘At your service, ma dame. As you doubtless heard, I am looking for Clare.’

      Nicola’s lip trembled. ‘I am afraid you have missed her. She has...moved away.’

      Nell jumped into his line of vision, fists clenched. ‘No, she hasn’t! She’s gone for salt.’ A small hand batted his. ‘Sir Arthur, Clare told me she was going to buy salt.’

      Arthur looked at Nicola. He wasn’t used to dealing with children and, sweet though this one was, he was helpless in the face of her tears.

      ‘We have plenty of salt, sir,’ Nicola said, gesturing at a pot by the fire. ‘Clare’s not coming back.’

      Tiny fingers curled into his tunic. ‘She is! She is coming back! She forgot we had salt. She’ll be back soon, I know it.’

      ‘Nell,’ Nicola’s voice, though weak, held a warning. ‘Shouldn’t you be watching our soup?’

      The small fingers uncurled and, sniffing, the child went to the fire.

      ‘I knew this time would come, sir,’ Nicola said. ‘I hoped she would stay, but in my heart I knew she would leave us.’

      Nell had found a wooden spoon. Arthur watched her stirring. ‘Was Clare threatened, do you know?’ he asked quietly. Thanks to Geoffrey’s change of heart, a priceless relic had slipped out of the thieves’ hands. It was more than likely they bore a grudge. Had they demanded recompense? Were they taking their anger out on Clare?

      ‘Threatened? Why should anyone threaten Clare?’ Nicola gazed thoughtfully into the fire. ‘I suppose there could have been something. Clare kept her thoughts to herself much of the time. When Geoffrey brought her here, a scrawny waif whom he found on the road to Ravenshold, I had my doubts.’

      Arthur stared. ‘Sir Geoffrey found her on the road?’

      ‘Yes, sir. She had nowhere to go, so he brought her here. My Geoffrey offered her board and keep in return for looking after us.’ Nicola’s eyes were glassy with tears, her voice was a thread. ‘She was a tower of strength when Geoffrey died, but more than that, I have grown fond of her. She stayed longer than I dared hope.’

      ‘Do you know where she’s gone?’

      ‘No, sir. Will you...’ her expression brightened ‘...will you try to find her?’

      Arthur hesitated. ‘I shall try, but I am sworn to serve Count Henry.’ He moved to the door.

      ‘You are Captain of the Guardian Knights and must follow the Count’s orders?’

      ‘I must.’

      ‘Perhaps, sir, if you asked for Count Henry’s permission...?’

      Arthur reached for the door latch. Mon Dieu, the last thing he wanted to do was to leave Troyes, particularly to chase after a chance-met girl, even one who might be Count Myrrdin’s by-blow. It was an honour to be Captain of Count Henry’s Guardians—an honour that had been hard won. Being Captain of the Guardians was no sinecure. Several knights were jostling to take his place, young