Clare tapped the token with her fingernail. ‘Nicola, you could get good money for this, people are fighting to get their hands on them.’
Nicola’s eyes filled. ‘Nell would love to see the Twelfth Night Joust—you know she adores watching the knights. They remind her of Geoffrey.’
Clare narrowed her eyes. That was a low blow and Nicola knew it. ‘Nell can go with someone else. Speaking of Nell, where is she?’
‘Taking yarn round to Aimée’s.’
‘Couldn’t Aimée take her to the joust?’
Nicola made a pleading gesture. ‘I would much rather she went with you. Clare, please. Nell’s a child and I’m afraid that when she is grown she will have forgotten Geoffrey. I want her to be able to remember him. If she sees a joust, it will strengthen her memory.’
‘Strengthen her memory?’
‘When you get there you can tell her about him. Explain what’s happening. Let her see she can be proud of her brother—an ordinary boy, who received his spurs. I want her to be able to remember him, the brother who didn’t forget his mother in her hour of need.’
On the table, the lead token gleamed like a baleful eye. Regret and sorrow held Clare’s tongue. This was becoming awkward. Nicola’s pride in her son was almost all she had and Clare wasn’t about to take that away from her. She felt herself weaken.
Geoffrey had made many mistakes in his life, but as far as Clare was concerned he was a Good Samaritan. He’d given her—a complete stranger—a roof over her head. He’d trusted her to look after his mother. For all his flaws, Geoffrey had loved his mother dearly and Clare knew he would want her to honour his mother’s wishes.
Taking Nell to the Twelfth Night Joust was, on the surface, a small favour. On the surface...
‘Nicola, what if the joust distresses her? There might be bloodshed.’ Clare repressed a shudder. True, the Twelfth Night Joust was reputed to be more of a show than a battle. A show put on for the ladies of Champagne. But it was still a joust. There would be fighting and Clare couldn’t stand the sight of blood. It reminded her of...of things best forgotten. Pushing that dark memory to the back of her mind, she had to swallow before she could continue. ‘Nell might remember that her brother lost his life at a tournament.’
‘Geoffrey wasn’t killed in the lists. Count Lucien explained how he was killed preventing an attack on Countess Isobel. That is entirely different, and Nell knows it. Please take her, Clare, she’d love to go with you.’
‘The Twelfth Night Joust,’ Clare murmured, shaking her head. ‘Holy Virgin, give me strength.’ What Nicola was asking was no light thing. Never mind that she didn’t like going abroad, she wasn’t sure she trusted herself if the violence got out of hand. An image of bloodstains darkening a man’s tunic swam before her. She might faint. Or—more likely—become sick. If there was bloodshed, she was bound to draw attention to herself...
‘Please, Clare. Please.’
Clare reached for the token and her heart turned over as she slipped it into her purse. ‘Very well. For you, I shall take Nell to the Twelfth Night Joust.’
Nicola’s face lightened. ‘Thank you, my dear, I am sure you will enjoy it when you get there. Pass me my spindle and wool, would you? I don’t like being idle.’
Soon the gentle rattle and whir of a drop spindle filled the room. Nicola’s fingers were no longer nimble and she tired quickly. The finished yarn was likely to have many bumps and imperfections in it, but Clare knew she found solace in her work. And it wasn’t as if the resulting yarn was unusable, Nicola’s neighbour Aimée wove a surprisingly serviceable homespun out of it. Alexandrian brocade it was not, but the flaws gave stuff made from Nicola’s yarn an unusual texture that was oddly appealing. The titled ladies Clare would be rubbing shoulders with on the stands would likely turn their noses up at such cloth, but Clare was more than happy to wear it.
As Clare watched Nicole’s aged fingers twisting the yarn, she had a strange thought. If all imperfection was eradicated from the world, it would be a much poorer place.
* * *
Sir Arthur Ferrer, Captain of Count Henry’s Guardian Knights, stood in his green pavilion while his squire laced him into his gambeson and sighed. All these years he had waited to have his own pavilion and now that he finally had one, what should he find? He missed the company of his fellow knights. He missed the banter and he missed the rivalry.
‘Holy hell,’ he muttered, shoving his hand through his dark hair.
His squire, Ivo, looked up. ‘Too tight, sir?’
Arthur flexed his shoulders and smiled. ‘No, it’s perfect. My thanks, Ivo.’
Since the Winter Fair had ended, the town had emptied and there were fewer troublemakers to deal with. None the less, Arthur was conscious of a growing sense of malaise. He couldn’t account for it. It wasn’t that he had little to do—he’d be the last to say the streets of Troyes had been entirely cleared of wrongdoers. Human nature being what it was, that day would probably never dawn, but—
The door flap pushed back. A head that was as fair as Arthur’s was dark appeared in the opening.
‘Gawain!’ Mood lifting, Arthur gestured him in. ‘Welcome.’
Sir Gawain stooped to enter and went to the trestle where he made a show of reviewing Arthur’s arms. ‘Saw the unicorn on the pennon and realised you’d be in here.’ Idly, he picked up Arthur’s damascened sword, testing its weight. ‘Is this the one your father made?’
Arthur tensed and forced himself to relax. Gawain was a friend and there had been no mockery in his voice, but one could never be sure. ‘Yes.’
‘It’s a fine sword, it has wonderful balance. Will you be using it?’
‘Not today, I’m holding it in reserve for a real fight. Are you competing, Gawain? I didn’t see your pavilion.’
‘I’m sharing Luc’s, which is a mistake. It’s hellishly crowded.’
‘If you can stand some less exalted company, you are welcome to join me.’
‘My thanks, I don’t mind if I do. Give me a moment, while I find my squire.’
Ducking out of the pavilion, Gawain vanished. He was back, squire in tow, before Arthur had belted on his sword.
‘I’ve yet to speak to Luc,’ Arthur said, as Ivo cleared space on the trestle for Gawain’s arms. ‘How do matters stand at Ravenshold? Is all well?’
Sir Gawain was steward of Count Lucien d’Aveyron’s nearby castle, Ravenshold. It was a position Arthur had occupied until recently, when he had resigned to join the Guardian Knights.
‘Well enough.’ Gawain spoke lightly, but his mouth proclaimed him a liar—it was turned down at the corners.
Arthur looked thoughtfully at him. Gawain looked as though he hadn’t slept in days. ‘I hear Countess Isobel is to be Queen of the Tournament.’
‘Aye, she’s handing out the prizes,’ Gawain said, staring moodily
