‘Sir knight?’ Nell said, her voice doubtful as she stared at the flaring nostrils of the destrier. She held out the scrap of cloth. Simple, ordinary homespun, slightly ragged at the edges.
The knight—his visor was up—inclined his head at Clare. He was so close, she could see his eyes—they were dark as sloes. He smiled at Nell and whisked the strip from her fingers. The destrier shifted and drew level with Clare.
‘My lady?’ the knight said, leaning down and proffering his arm. ‘Do you mind assisting?’
I am no lady. Nevertheless, Clare nodded and wound the strip of fabric round his mailed arm. The knight stared thoughtfully at her. ‘My thanks.’ He was looking at her eyes—everyone did.
Spurs flashed and knight and charger surged back on to the field. Behind them, someone sighed.
‘Sir Arthur never takes my favour,’ a woman said, in aggrieved tones. ‘And now he takes a child’s!’
Clare felt a pull on her skirts.
‘He took my favour! He took my favour!’ Nell stared after him. ‘Is he one of Geoffrey’s friends?’
‘It seems likely. I think he’s a Guardian Knight. He’s very important!’ Clare recalled Geoffrey mentioning a knight by the name of Arthur who had at one time been steward of Ravenshold. This must be he. It was possible Count Lucien had asked him to look out for them.
‘I wonder who he is,’ Nell said.
‘If you listen to the herald, you will hear the names. He was announced as Sir Arthur Ferrer.’
The trumpets blared and other knights paraded by. More favours exchanged hands. Count Lucien was riding towards the stands to greet his wife, the Queen of the Tournament.
‘Look, Nell, here is Geoffrey’s liege lord.’
‘He will take Countess Isobel’s favour,’ Nell said, confidently.
Murmuring agreement, Clare let her gaze wander beyond the knights to the crowd behind the rope on the other side of the lists. Was Paolo da Lucca among them? She saw faces she recognised, but not the merchant’s. She should have asked more about the slavers, but she had been too stunned to think straight. And now she had no way of finding him. She had no idea where he was lodged, she had missed her chance.
Vaguely, Clare was conscious of Count Lucien riding past, of him giving Nell a little salute. Nell squeaked and jiggled. Her cheeks were bright with excitement. Clare returned the Count’s smile. It had been kind of him to find Geoffrey’s sister a place on the ladies’ stand.
As the knights lined up at either end of the lists, in preparation for the first tests of horsemanship, Clare scoured the townsfolk opposite.
If only she could find Paolo.
She sighed. She felt settled in Troyes. She was weary of looking over her shoulder, weary of wondering when she would feel the tap on her shoulder that announced that her days of freedom were over.
It would seem that she was as much a slave as she had been when she had arrived. Would she ever be free? Some days, all Clare had were her doubts and, sadly, this was just such a day. Whatever she did, however hard she tried to blend in, she would never succeed. People couldn’t help but notice her eyes.
Mismatched eyes, one grey, one green, were hard to hide.
Chapter Two
Arthur steadied Steel and stared down the lists. Thus far, the contest was even. His team—Count Lucien’s Troyennes—had won as many points as Sir Gérard and the Visitors. They had come to the last few deciding bouts of the individual jousting. Mindful of the ladies, lances were blunted—there would be no mêlée today. Count Henry had decided that Countess Marie was too delicate to watch one. The word went that she was with child.
Arthur was eager to see who he had been drawn against for the next few passes. When Sir Gérard rode on to the field and his squire hefted his lance from the stand and handed it to him, Arthur grinned. It would be amusing to see how Gérard reacted when he was unhorsed and his pretty armour muddied. It was a reasonable ambition and Arthur had the best of three tries to realise it.
The marshal hadn’t given the signal to engage, and as Arthur waited, he could have sworn he heard the faint tinkling of bells from the other end of the lists. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the little girl whose favour he had taken shift impatiently on the ladies’ stand. He blew her a kiss. This one’s for you, little one. The girl crimsoned. She was gripping the handrail as though her life depended on it. What a sweetheart, she really wanted him to win.
For a moment, her companion’s striking, mismatched eyes swam before him. They were most uncommon. One grey, one green. He had never seen their like before. Except...at the back of his mind, a wisp of a memory called to him.
Wait—surely I have seen those eyes before? They remind me of...
The memory slipped beyond reach. Elusive. Yet he knew he had seen those eyes before. As he tried to hunt the memory down, the marshal bellowed.
Arthur gripped his lance and put everything out of his mind save the joust. Trumpets blared and Steel leaped into a gallop. This first pass must count, Sir Gérard was about to be unhorsed. Steel thundered over the ground. Conscious of the ladies in the stands screaming for his opponent, Arthur kept his eye on his target. Ten yards, five...
His lance glanced off Gérard’s shield and splintered into a thousand shards. Gérard’s lance had missed Arthur entirely and Gérard, distracted no doubt by the screaming ladies, rocked in the saddle.
‘My point, I believe,’ Arthur muttered.
Steel pulled up sharply at the other end and whirled about. Arthur was handed a second lance and a heartbeat later he was tearing back towards Gérard. Clumps of turf flew every which way. Gérard had been wrong-footed by that first pass and his shield wavered. The silver bells trembled.
Arthur gave no quarter and his lance connected with Gérard’s shield. It was almost too easy. Gérard flew from his saddle and hit the ground with a thud. As his horse raced away, the light chiming of bells lingered in the air.
Half the crowd groaned, the other half roared. Best of three meant that it was over for Sir Gérard, who sat up with a groan, wrenched off his helmet, and tossed it aside. Gérard might be popular with the ladies of the court, but he was less popular with the townsfolk. It was Arthur the townsfolk were cheering.
Arthur lifted his visor and raised a hand to acknowledge the cheers. Behind the ropes, the citizens of Troyes stamped and whistled and yelled. And Arthur was not without supporters on the ladies’ platform either. His little lady was fairly screaming with excitement, jumping up and down like a cat on coals. The young woman with the mismatched eyes was smiling down at her. Briefly, she looked across at him, and lifted her hands in applause. Mismatch. It was too far away for him to see those curious eyes, but the wind lifted the edge of her veil, revealing hair that shone bright as copper in the winter sunlight. Again a shiver of recognition ran through him.
Who is she? I have not met her, yet I know those eyes. Who is she?
* * *
By the time the Queen of the Tournament rose to her feet to award the prizes, Arthur had worked out where he had seen the young woman before. He had seen her at Geoffrey’s funeral.
Sir Geoffrey had been one of Count Lucien’s household knights and, before his untimely death, Arthur had known him well. The lad had been killed, ostensibly while protecting Lady Isobel, at a tournament held at the Field of the Birds. The young woman on the ladies’ stand had attended Geoffrey’s funeral. The last to leave after Geoffrey had been interred, she had stood, head bowed over the grave, a slim auburn-haired woman in rough homespun. Throughout the funeral rites, she had looked as though she had been on the verge of making a run for it. A nervous, shrinking violet, Arthur