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 seemed to recall that knights referred to white horses as grey—halted at the barrier directly in front of them. Harness creaked. The knight’s green pennon snapped in the breeze; the unicorn on his shield was dazzlingly bright.
‘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
