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 had thought. He had not been near enough to notice her odd eyes at Geoffrey’s funeral, so it must have been her hair that had given him that sense that he had met her before. It was the same girl, no question. According to Lucien, she wasn’t related to Geoffrey. Had she and Geoffrey been lovers?
The peculiar exchange Arthur had seen earlier pushed into his mind. What had that merchant said to her? It had clearly upset her. Had the man been threatening her? If so, why? Arthur would give a day’s pay to know what had passed between them. Was it in some way connected with Geoffrey’s death?
Count Lucien harboured doubts as to Geoffrey’s honesty. Before Christmas, he had mentioned that he suspected Geoffrey of involvement in the theft of a relic from the Abbey. Arthur hadn’t paid much attention at the time and he should have done. A gang of outlaws was known to be working the area. This girl could have links with them. If so, as Captain of Count Henry’s Guardians, it was very much Arthur’s business. Count Henry wanted Champagne cleared of outlaws. The Guardians had been established for that very purpose. Arthur’s first duty was to keep the roads and highways safe for honest folk.
The Winter Fair was over and tomorrow the town would settle down after the tournament. It was the perfect chance to root out the thieves, once and for all. If the girl had any connection with them, Arthur must know of it. As soon as he might, he would seek her out and judge for himself whether she was involved. Count Henry would expect no less of the Captain of his Guardian Knights.
A trumpet blast cut through the babble of the crowd, jerking Arthur out of his thoughts. The field was awash with blue pennons and Countess Isobel was preparing to hand out the prizes. Her husband, Count Lucien, had won the individual prize and his team—the Troyennes—had won the team prize.
As Count Lucien rode towards his countess in her glittering crown, Arthur lifted his voice along with the rest. It was good to fight on the winning side. He and Gawain would be celebrating when they visited the Black Boar.
* * *
Late the next morning, Nicola was dozing on her cot by the fire. Clare had sent Nell to deliver another batch of wool to Aimée and the child had been gone some while. No more than mildly concerned, for Aimée had two girls of her own and Nell enjoyed visiting them, Clare glanced through the shutters to see if the children were out in the street. Nell usually reappeared in time for the noonday meal.
She caught movement on the left, a quick flash of green. Someone was approaching the house. Her fingers curled into her palms, and although she was braced for it, the sharp rap on the door had her leaping out of her skin. Heart jumping, Clare set her hand on the planks and peered through a knot-hole.
‘Who’s there?’
A cream-coloured tunic stretched across a wide chest. A silver cloak pin held a green cloak in place. ‘Good day, ma dame. Sir Arthur Ferrer at your disposal.’
Nell’s champion. Clare glanced at Nicola and heard a light snore. Nicola usually had trouble sleeping and Clare was loathe to disturb her. Sir Arthur was surely no threat. Last night she had learned that he had indeed been sworn to Count Lucien before he had taken charge of the Guardians. Sir Arthur had known Geoffrey. She could surely speak to him outside the house, it would only be for a moment. Telling herself this knight couldn’t possibly know what had brought her to Troyes, she lifted her cloak from its peg and unlatched the door. She was unveiled—no matter, this wouldn’t take long.
‘Good morning, Sir Arthur.’ She gave him a quick curtsy. Sir Arthur’s hair was
