‘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.’
‘No, sir, pray do not. Wear mine!’
‘No, no! Wear mine!’
More giggles floated from the ladies’ stand. The tinkling bells sparked in the winter sun. Arthur shook his head at Sir Gérard and reminded himself that this was entertainment for ladies.
Just then, even as the trumpets blared for the review, a man ran to the front of the ladies’ stand. As Arthur guided Steel into his place in the line, he watched him. The man was well dressed, in a fur-lined cloak and a tunic that stretched too tightly across a wide expanse of belly. A merchant, most likely. His hood was down and a bald patch on the back of his head gleamed. Whoever he was, he should not be on the field. A page had seen him and was shouting at him.
‘Sir! Sir! Clear the field!’
The merchant took no notice, he was making straight for a girl in the front row. She was simply dressed and looked vaguely familiar. The girl was sitting a little to one side of Countess Isobel in her glittering crown, so she must have some connection with Count Lucien, but Arthur couldn’t place her.
The trumpets blared. Arthur kicked Steel’s flanks and started down the lists. As the herald began calling out knights’ names and ranks, Gawain took the place at his side.
Arthur glanced back at the stand. Two castle pages were standing at the merchant’s elbows, urging him from the field. Brushing them off, the merchant had taken the girl’s hand and was speaking to her. Arthur’s gaze sharpened. The girl pulled her hand free and put her arm round a small child. Oddly, the gesture struck him as defensive rather than protective. Whatever was being said, the girl didn’t want to hear it.
‘Sir Arthur Ferrer!’ The herald’s cry jerked him back to the business in hand.
Arthur lifted his arm in salute, and the crowd roared. Sir Gérard might have the favour of the ladies, but Arthur liked to think he had the common touch. By the time he had finished his parade about the lists and had reached the main stands, the pages must have won their tussle with the merchant, for there was no sign of him.
* * *
Shaken, Clare hugged Nell to her and stared blindly in front of her as the knights rode past. Luckily, the knight with the unicorn on his pennon was approaching to salute the Queen of the Tournament and Nell was watching him, stars in her eyes. Clearly, Nell had chosen this knight as her champion and Clare’s interaction with the merchant had passed unnoticed. A knight on a white charger, caparisoned in green silk, was far more interesting than any conversation Clare might have with a stranger. Thankfully.
The merchant—his name was Paolo da Lucca—had slipped back into the throng on the other side of the lists. It had been kind of him to warn her, but Clare had hoped never to see him again. With one little phrase—‘slavers have been seen in Troyes’—he had frozen the blood in her veins.
Slavers. Will I ever escape?
It would seem not. The last time Clare had seen Paolo had been when he had given her passage on one of his carts carrying merchandise out of Apulia. On that occasion, Paolo had been bound for Paris and they had parted ways outside Troyes, where—thank the Lord—the young knight, Sir Geoffrey of Troyes, had found her. Clare didn’t like to think what might have happened to her if Geoffrey hadn’t found her. She’d had neither money nor friends and Nicola’s lodgings had become home, her first real home. Clare’s eyes prickled. If slavers were in Troyes, she would have to leave.
I want to stay!
The thought of leaving Nicola and Nell was unbearable.
Nell was shaking a strip of Aimée’s homespun at the knight in the green surcoat. Favours of every colour of the rainbow were fluttering in his direction, but, amazingly, the knight had noticed Nell.
Clare felt his gaze wash over her and his destrier turned towards them.
‘He’s seen me!’ Nell was quivering with excitement. ‘He’s coming over!’
Nell danced up and down, waving Aimée’s cloth in the manner of a high-born lady offering her favour to her chosen knight. ‘Sir! Sir knight! Take my favour!’
Clare sighed. A great knight like this would surely ignore a little girl? He would take the silken favour of some noblewoman behind them and she would spend the rest of the day mopping up Nell’s tears.
To her astonishment, the grey—Clare