Elise and Vivienne in the Rue du Cloître, their fire isn’t lit. If the lute-player notices, he might become suspicious. Especially if he has something to hide.’
For the women’s sake, Gawain hoped his fears regarding André de Poitiers were unfounded. Sadly, his instincts were telling him otherwise—André de Poitiers was up to his neck in trouble. Captain Raphael had come to the same conclusion and consequently the Guardian Knights were out in force. Every half an hour or so, the chink of harness and the plod of hoofs alerted Gawain—and everyone within earshot—that they were on patrol.
‘They’re far too conspicuous.’ Gawain grimaced. ‘I’m convinced a more covert approach is called for.’
He was sipping his ale—watery as it was, it was welcome in the heat—when Aubin dug him in the ribs. ‘Over there.’ His squire spoke quietly. ‘At the end of the line.’
Between the lines of tents, a woman was striding through the dusk. As she passed a fire, the glow silhouetted her shape—her gut-wrenchingly pretty and familiar shape. Elise!
Gawain gripped his ale pot. ‘What the blazes is she doing here?’ She should be making herself at home in the Rue du Cloître. ‘Blast the woman.’
Elise paused by the ropes of a makeshift paddock that was full of mules and donkeys. Gesturing for a groom, she slipped something into his hand. Gawain felt himself tense. What was that all about? Vivienne had mentioned travelling in a cart. If they had a cart, they probably kept a mule. His tension eased. Likely Elise was ensuring the animal was cared for in her absence.
He saw her pat the boy on the shoulder and tracked her progress as she made her way to the purple pavilion, now almost lost in the gathering dark. He was on the point of rising when the shadow that was Elise bent to pick something up. She went to the nearest campfire, where another woman was crouched over a cooking pot. Then she was back at the pavilion, a light in hand.
The cooking fire. She was lighting the fire so André would assume everything was as it should be. Gawain couldn’t fault her for that. None the less, her presence in the camp disturbed him. Undoubtedly she’d come back to keep an eye on André. She would never admit it, but she must suspect him of wrongdoing.
A patrol went by. Gawain studiously avoided looking at the lead rider as they passed the ale tent, but he did note that they rode by the purple pavilion without giving it more than a cursory glance. Thank the Lord, Captain Raphael had some sense.
The patrol moved on. Elise went into the pavilion as a group of drunks stumbled up to the ale tent. To judge by their gait, they had already emptied several barrels in town. They staggered to a bench, clamouring for wine and ale. One man lurched half-heartedly at the serving girl. She evaded him neatly and a roar of laughter went up.
Gawain watched the drunks, a crease in his brow. Did Elise find herself fending off men like these on a regular basis? The thought wasn’t pleasant. And neither was it any of his business. He was here to make sure that the lute-player hadn’t involved her in anything underhand. He would find a way to help her and then he must leave her to her own devices. He would shortly be a married man. The thought left him with a bitter taste in his mouth that had nothing to do with ale and everything to do with Elise. She had made him a father. Gawain stared abstractedly at the glow outside the purple pavilion. A father owed a duty of care to his children, and whilst Pearl had come unexpectedly into his life he couldn’t simply forget her. Yet what could he do? How could he fulfil his duties to Pearl when he’d sworn to marry Lady Rowena and finally heal the family rift?
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